5 Times They Kissed for a Case, and 1 Time They Kissed for Real
by fleetwood-mouse
Summary: A stolen ring! An artful blogger! And many more adventures for your enjoyment. (Slightly different title to AO3 due to character limits here. Sorry!)
1. Museum Gala

DISCLAIMER: I have no affiliation whatsoever with Moffat, Gattis, or Arthur Conan Doyle, to whom all the credit for this universe belongs. Aside from the fun I had writing it, I have not and will not profit from this story in any way.

John wasn't even entirely sure he knew wha t polo w as. Sure, he had played water polo once at school and the concept had been quite similar to football, except that you had to toss the ball to one another while desperately treading water and half of the fun seemed to be blatantly trying to drown your classmates by pulling them below the surface by their ankles and playing a game of oxygen deprivation chicken, but how could all of that translate to horseback? Honestly, he didn't want to imagine – it sounded quite horrifying – but in reality, it seemed to result only in some of the most boring and meandering stories he had ever heard.

Of course, he couldn't quite say that to the pasty older gentleman who had engaged him in conversation what felt like decades ago, but nor could he seem to extract himself from this awkward situation. At this point, excusing himself to get another drink seemed to be his only option, although this one was still a little more than half full and he'd already done that twice in the hour since they'd arrived (once when confronted with a translucent-skinned young man who kept wiping his nose on his sleeve cuffs and again with a woman who bred those terrifying hairless cats), so he had to recognise that it wouldn't be a viable strategy for much longer.

"And do you know what else?" the man guffawed, suddenly clasping John's shoulder like an old friend. John observed the sloshing of the drink in his hand and judged that if there was little enough liquid not to overflow from the sudden force, it was an acceptable amount to down in one gulp. He tilted his head back and poured it down his throat, then resigned himself to nodding politely through what he had decided would be the last such story.

His tie felt too tight, which was silly because it wasn't as if he were unaccustomed to wearing one, and the clacking of high heels against marble floors echoed off the high ceilings like some kind of reverse sonar that only served to disorient him further. John hated functions like this. He was ill at ease with this kind of crowd, would have been even if he wasn't totally sure they could pick out how he didn't belong from the other side of the spacious Renaissance wing. Sherlock, of course, could play the part perfectly (though John suspected that this particular role required substantially less acting of the posh bastard than most did), and looked perfectly at home among these museum donors and committee members. He didn't have to worry a fig about passing for Richard Lyle III or IV or whatever it was, while John had enough on his plate trying to live up to the nondescript title "and partner."

The man burst into raucous laughter and John accompanied him politely, head beginning to swim. He looked down at the glass in his hand and blinked in surprise as if he had just noticed it was empty.

"Well, wouldn't you know it?" he remarked. "You'll have to excuse me a moment, I'll just be –"

"Hold on, hold on, dear boy; let me just call someone over!" The man raised an arm to flag a server down and John was quick to stop him.

"No need, no need," John assured him. "Thank you so much, though. I'll just get it myself – stretch my legs – and I'll be right back," and with that, he made his escape.

John had always been under the impression that tact was of paramount value in this social stratum, so he assumed he must have imagined the judgmental look that the bartender was giving him (though it _was _one he had often seen directed at Harry), and he took the drink gratefully. Now was the time to put the plan into action. He cast a glance across the room and his eyes lit upon Sherlock: elegant, charming, passing flawlessly. He resisted the urge to take a swig for courage – that was probably the last thing he needed right now – and he made his way to the smaller side room.

The crowd was thinner there; John noticed that that there were no waiters circulating with trays of olives or prawns or those fantastic goat cheese tarts that had almost been enough to keep him in the main hall. The ceilings were also lower, making the room less imposing and less subject to echoes and distortion. Conversations were whispered here, and the occasional ringing peal of laughter drew disapproving glances.

Several of the newly acquired pieces – mostly jewelry – were on display here, outside their glass cases in the open air. John recalled the map that Sherlock had cooked up and gone over with him again and again. He quickly recognised the tiered display shelf it would be atop of. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he found the cold hunk of metal and warmed it in his palm. Standing directly next to the shelf was a young woman – not quite too young for John to be talking to, he didn't think – in a modest purple dress. She was lovely; dark-haired, slender, with an angular face that looked nothing like poor, sweet Mary's. The last thing John wanted to do right now was remember when he had last stood before a beautiful woman with a ring clenched in one trembling hand.

She turned toward him just then and caught him looking, but she gave him a smile that was friendly, if slightly wary. He smiled back and took the invitation, and as he crossed the small room, he was sure to favour his left leg only slightly but just enough to be noticeable. Not like a man who needed a cane, he hoped, so much as one who had just returned from a ski holiday with a torn ligament, which was his story in case anyone asked. He only knew one person who would be able to pick out the difference and anyway, that person was on his side.

John smiled broadly (he might not quite pass for high society, but he had a face people trusted and he knew it) as he reached her side. "Hi there," he said warmly. "Didn't we meet at one of these before? I feel like..."

"Oh, we must have," she replied, returning a brilliant smile. "I'm terribly sorry, though, you'll have to remind me of your name."

"No, thank you for saving me the embarrassment," John said with a chuckle, and she laughed too, and an elderly woman in a horrendous pearl-splattered gown shot them a dirty look. "Daniel," he said, stepping forward and extending his arm. "Daniel Briggs."

"I'm Laura," she said, reaching for his hand, and as he bent to shake it, he allowed his shoulder to bump the shelf, which teetered and wobbled with dramatic tension that was nearly comic, and he had just enough time to register the look of horror on Laura's face as the pieces on the topmost level fell to the floor.

"Oh God, oh no, oh no," sputtered John, and his left hand dipped into his pocket as he dropped to his knees. He'd only have a few seconds. He recognised the ring immediately – he had been carrying a replica of it around all day, after all. Laura was kneeling beside him, reaching for a brooch and, praying he'd be deft enough that she wouldn't see, he shot out his hand and let it hover over the ring for a second, lifting it with the tip of his middle finger as he let its twin fall from his palm.

He let it lay where it fell – it was safer to wait for Laura to pick it up – and reached to recover another piece, a pair of earrings that had fallen side by side, when he heard urgent footsteps approaching from the direction of the great hall. Security, or maybe museum staff – it didn't matter anyway. Feigning a cough, he lifted his hand to cover his mouth and popped the ring between his lips. Laura didn't appear to have seen.

"Oh God, I'm so embarrassed," John moaned, secreting away the ring in his cheek like a hamster. "I hurt my leg recently and I guess I just –"

"I'm sure it'll be fine," soothed Laura, leaning back on her heels to survey the area. "It doesn't look like anything's broken. I think we've got all of it, actually."

"Might have," John agreed. The metallic taste in his mouth was unpleasant and he was worried about talking too much – would the ring clack against his teeth noticeably? The noise alone could give him away, but he was also concerned about the damage the large diamond could potentially do. They were supposed to be the hardest substance on earth, weren't they? In any case, they were certainly up there.

"Is everything all right?" John looked up, feeling the ring shift backwards (oh God, what if he swallowed it?), to see a very imposing-looking security guard standing over them with a horrified expression on her face.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry," John offered, getting to his feet. "I must have stumbled – I've an injury, you see – and knocked the display off balance, and..." He held out his hands palms-up, and the pair of earrings he had manage to pick up while pulling off the switch looked pitifully inadequate next to how Laura had recovered the remainder of the pieces. John put on his best chastened embarrassment face and awaited her judgement.

"Nothing is broken," Laura assured her, and John almost smiled. Having one person on his side already made him feel optimistic. He really must have one of those faces, but it never ceased to surprise him. As Sherlock had told him before they left the flat, _Stop worrying, John; nobody ever believes someone like you would be up to anything bad._ (Though he had soon felt compelled to add, _Some of us do know better, of course._)

The woman collected the jewelry from their outstretched hands and began the process of returning each piece to its place, and John chalked a point for himself on his internal scoreboard. "Oh God," she muttered. "What order do you think these went in? Do either of you remember?" It was all John could do not to breathe a sigh of relief when he realised how unlikely it was that she'd recognise the difference.

"There were nameplates, I think," Laura chimed in. "Unless those fell off, too – no, wait, they're glued down!" She quickly became absorbed in the task of helping the security guard. 

"Shall I go get someone to help, then?" John offered. The security guard seemed distracted as she gave him the go-ahead and it was all he could do not to grin. "All right, then. I'll be back straightaway! I'm so sorry!"

Saying you'd call the authorities yourself, as John had learned when he first began accompanying Sherlock on cases, was an absolutely brilliant way of keeping them from showing up at all. It was a simple enough lesson but it rarely, if ever, failed him. He could hardly believe his good fortune.

John's eyes were quick to pick Sherlock out from where he was standing at the other end of the hall. And how could John fail to see him? Sherlock was in his element, his personality was switched on and dialed up – he was entirely at home there in a suit and a role perfectly tailored to him. The crowd almost seemed to part around him, though that was probably just the alcohol.

As he crossed the room toward Sherlock, John tried not to let his nerves betray him, fought to keep his walk casual, a vacant cocktail party smile plastered on his face. He lifted his glass to his lips and (carefully sucking his cheek against his teeth) downed this drink, too.

"Richard, could I borrow you for a moment?" John asked as he came up behind Sherlock, resting a possessive hand at the small of his back. Though John had never before brought a man as his date to a high-society function (or anywhere else for that matter, despite what so many people seemed to think), he was confident that he could slip into the role of "boyfriend" more easily than Sherlock could; that should fall more into his area of expertise.

"Daniel!" Sherlock exclaimed warmly, turning into John's touch, eyes bright as he bussed his cheek, which had gone pink from the alcohol, John could feel it. "Of course – would you just give us a moment please?" he asked the couple he'd been chatting with.

"So sorry, really," John said to them as Sherlock took him by the arm and led him a few steps away – far enough to create the illusion of a private conversation but not so far that they couldn't be heard. John contorted his face slightly, letting his mouth twitch, and hoping to draw Sherlock's attention to the lump in his cheek.

"Is everything all right?" Sherlock asked him, dropping only the pitch of his voice to disguise that it was still his normal speaking volume. His eyes were wide with concern as he laid a solicitous hand on John's arm, and John felt a small flutter of warmth – _stupid, stupid – _at the unexpected expression of comfort. Sherlock, it seemed, could play this role better than John had ever had cause to suspect, and – yes, a sideways peek confirmed that the young couple, for all their unfailingly polite no-troubles and not-at-alls, were very much attuned to this side conversation.

"I'm sure it's nothing," John began, "but I've just had a call from my mother, and –"

"Oh, of course, I see," murmured Sherlock, clicking his tongue. There was a surprising amount of sympathy in the way he cut John off, as if he already understood the situation intimately and wanted nothing more than to spare John the discomfort of having to rehash painful personal details. "Would you like me to drive you? I could just –"

"Oh, no, I think it'd be better if I got a cab," John answered quickly. As he took Sherlock's hand in his, a rogue thought flitted across his brain and suddenly, just like that, he found himself acting. "You stay here and enjoy the party; you've been looking forward to it for so long."

Sherlock gave a little chuckle at this, but he did not appear entirely swayed (nor, John noted with some irritation, did he seem particularly impressed by John's ad-libbing).

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked.

"Positive," John said and clasped his hand. "Just enjoy yourself and I'll see you later tonight" He tugged Sherlock's hand gently, discreetly. It seemed he could rely on Sherlock's acting skills and while he'd never dare to call Sherlock's observational prowess into question, John's head was spinning from the alcohol and somehow he didn't fully trust him to recognise the body language of someone asking for a goodbye kiss.

But Sherlock was smiling down at him and John forgot the metallic taste in his mouth as he went up on his toes, which was something he'd never had to do before, not for a kiss. The edges of the diamond felt sharp enough to cut, and so he turned the ring so the band faced outward, holding the gem gently but firmly between his front teeth as their lips touched.

Any first kiss can be a little bit unfamiliar, a little bit strange. And considering their respective levels of inexperience (John with men, Sherlock in general (presumably, at least), and the two of them with each other), it wasn't so unexpected, John thought, that this one would be rather more awkward than most. Not that it really felt like a proper kiss, not really, when almost all of John's attention was focused on the perfect way to manoeuvre a small band of metal inconspicuously past his teeth and between his lips and into Sherlock's mouth. Not when he couldn't stop worrying that one of them would get the angle wrong and the ring would fall to the floor, or that the diamond would scrape across the enamel on his teeth (he could almost feel the sound already, like nails on a chalkboard), or that it would strike Sherlock's incisors with a telling clack and heads would turn and everyone would make that stunning leap of logic and then they'd be caught. And the alcohol, instead of giving things its usual soft, rosy haze, was just making John feel uncomfortably hot and rushed, magnifying the heat of all the eyes he was sure were fixed upon them.

It was strange for something so much _like_ a kiss not to feel like one, but so much of John's life these days was neither fish nor fowl, especially where Sherlock was concerned, so he didn't particularly dwell on it. Instead, he tilted his chin slightly to angle his mouth further upward and rested a hand on the nape of Sherlock's neck to finagle smoother access, and when Sherlock, ever quick to adapt, responded with a mirror-image shift and Sherlock mouth opened soft and warm to him, John inhaled a sharp breath through his nose and almost forgot what he was trying to do.

He gathered up his focus and trained his thoughts on the rigid, metallic form of the ring, not how warm and pliant Sherlock's lips, Sherlock's mouth felt in comparison (Did thinking about not thinking about it count as having thought it? John's head was swimming), dedicating himself fully to the task at hand. Now, that last Scotch was chasing the others through his veins, thrumming heat up the back of his neck as he finally pinned his hopes on this angle being the right one, and worked the ring forward with the tip of his tongue, parting Sherlock's soft lips with a hushed whisper of breath. And Sherlock took the ring on his tongue like Communion, pulling it back with a little cat-like lap that made the tip of his tongue flick, electric, against John's own.

For a second, John tasted Cabernet and there was a flash of memory, of a wineglass and of Sherlock's long fingers pinching the stem, and a wave of giddy relief rushed over him. A smile broke across his face, stretching his lips almost chastely against Sherlock's one final time as he sank down off his toes and settled his weight into the heels of his dress shoes. It was absurd how the loss of a few grams of metal could make him feel as if an enormous heavy yoke had been lifted off his shoulders.

Chuffed, he beamed up at Sherlock for a second before managing to wipe the grin off his face; it was uncharacteristic, after all, for someone so concerned about his mother. Sherlock's cheeks were pink – _from the wine_, John corrected himself prematurely, _from the wine_. And maybe partially from embarrassment; considering the circumstances, that had been a bit of a long kiss, a deep kiss, rather too much tongue. John didn't want to look around and risk confirming what he suspected, that everyone's eyes were upon them, and so he just looked up at Sherlock and remembered that the ring was in safe hands and that his part in all this was successfully finished, so he had to just get out and go home.

"Right," he said, running his tongue over his canines so as not to lick his lips. Shit, what was his line?

Irritation flicked across Sherlock's eyes, just quick enough for John to catch it before the veil of sweet solicitousness fell again. "I'll be round later, then," he rumbled. "I'll bring dinner. Check that everything's all right and give her my love, Daniel."

"Will do," John promised, and Sherlock smiled down at him with warmth in his eyes, and as Sherlock squeezed his hand, John could feel a sort of tangling twist in his chest and suddenly he wanted, he needed desperately to be back at Baker Street and back to his normal life and the normal Sherlock, the one who was as cool and slick and unyielding as the ring tucked safely away in his cheek. He let Sherlock's hand drop and took a retreating step backward. "Bye, then."

Sherlock bid him goodbye, and he retreated, conscious that any eyes that might have been on them were now turned studiously back to the faces of their own companions. Tact was truly a lovely thing. And it didn't seem like the curators or any other concerned museum staff were looking for him yet – but then again, what kind of jewel thief would make a pit stop during his grand escape for a celebratory snog? The spectacle might well have provided him a little protection, he reasoned, though that was hardly cause to linger overlong.

John got himself out of the museum and into the cab just slowly enough that it couldn't be called hurrying, and as they pulled out into the traffic, he plucked his mobile out of his suit pocket and texted Lestrade.

"_Looked real_," he wrote. _"S has it now. I'm out safe"._

The response came a few seconds later (_"John, please. I CAN'T know that!" _–andJohn can almost hear the exasperated sigh) and he tucked the mobile safely away again and stared out at the skyline. The driver was weaving in and out of traffic and the road was bumpy and the alcohol sloshed away in John's stomach along with the goat cheese tarts, but he managed to make it back to 221B without being sick. He kicked off his tight shoes, drained a glass of water once, twice, and then filled it back up again before passing out on the sofa.

He woke up at three twenty in the morning, stifling under a heavy wool blanket. There was a dim light coming from the kitchen and Sherlock was hunched over the table, squatting barefoot atop a wooden chair, deeply absorbed in the delicate operation of transferring the contents of one Petri dish to another using a long pair of tweezers.

Bleary-eyed, John shuffled into the kitchen, knowing now not to worry about breaking Sherlock's concentration – if the man didn't want to be distracted, nothing could stir him. John paused a moment to watch him at work.

"Was it the real thing?" he asked. Sherlock gave no sign of having heard. He set down one very tiny fibre in the dish on the right, waited intently for a few seconds and then set about picking up another from the dish on the left. John downed the rest of his water, refilled the glass in the sink, and decided to put away that morning's dishes before going to bed. He had the cupboard open and most of them returned to their rightful places before Sherlock stirred.

"Mm?" he enquired.

"The ring," John clarified. "Was it real?"

"Oh," said Sherlock, as if it had been days ago. "Yes. Real. Lestrade's still insisting on running tests, for some reason, but I'm sure that was it."

"Well done, then," said John, closing the cupboard and mopping up a small puddle on the worktop. "I'm for bed. If I can get back to sleep, that is."

"Hmm," replied Sherlock, directing his remarks to the Petri dishes.

"Goodnight," he called back over his shoulder.

"'Night," came the response. For a moment, John considered turning on another light so that Sherlock wouldn't strain his eyes, but soon thought better of it. If the lights were low, it was probably because those were the conditions required by whatever test he was doing. It was silly to think that Sherlock would have risked compromising one of his experiments to keep from waking his flatmate. Although the blanket had been a bit of an anomaly...

John found that his own bed was much more comfortable than the sofa, and he sank into the cool sheets and read until his own eyes were weary; then, after a second of hesitation, he kept going. He nodded off and startled awake when the book fell closed on his chest, then found his place and began again. He finally flicked the light off after the second time the book glanced his face, secure in the knowledge that he was tired enough to drift off without mulling over the events of the day.

NOTES:  
・ Not beta'd or Britpicked, so please tell me if anything sticks out!

・ I feel like the line about the Scotch chasing the other drinks is riffing off of something, probably Douglas Adams, but I can't quite pin it down. I just know I'm not that witty on my own!

・This is my first attempt at writing something light and fun. Please let me know your thoughts!


	2. The Blogger

"The British Museum?" said John dubiously. "Not exactly what I was expecting."

Cold columns, Ionian, crisp against a sky too blue for the February morning. Children tramping joyfully up and down the marble steps, chased by harried parents. Crowded, but not so much so for a Saturday.

"Just because you can't be bothered to think of anything more original than dragging some vapid girl off to a pub doesn't mean the rest of the world is devoid of culture," Sherlock murmured, eyes flickering over faces as they weaved their way through the crowd.

John sighed. "I'm not saying I'd never take a date here–"

"Bring a date," corrected Sherlock automatically.

John's eyebrows gave a testy flick upwards, but he did not correct himself. "I just thought that if that's what we're supposed to be doing, maybe you'd have chosen something a little more obvious. More... date-y. Ugh." John stepped sideways to dodge the remains of a fallen kebab, bumping shoulders with Sherlock.

"Plenty of couples come here, John," Sherlock replied. "Just look around." _Housewife and cheating husband, parents to four, left the oldest at home (teenagers are difficult) – a pair of uni swimmers, not yet out to their teammates – budding accountant, struggling to pass the exam, dragged out by his girlfriend_. He knew John wouldn't, of course.

"I'm not trying to argue with you," John said. "You're right, you are. I'm actually impressed by how normal your idea of a date turned out to be. I'm just saying that it's not what I expected." He let his hands fall to his sides. "That's all."

Yellow and red, a flag fluttered in the wind (northeasterly, five to six kilometres per hour), announcing the exhibition they might end up having to see. Very modern – not to Sherlock's tastes at all. Most art wasn't, truthfully; how could he enjoy it when the creators fell all over themselves to prove how bloody ordinary they were, forgetting nearly everything important and romanticising their subjects beyond all recognition – only to be hailed as geniuses? How could anyone with a functioning brain take pleasure in a painting of a milkmaid with a flat brow that veritably screamed _aristocrat_, wrists that had never churned butter, and the wrong kind of dirt on her bare feet?

"I've done my research," he said. "And if what I've read is in any way accurate, you are proving to be a terrible companion. Are you trying to pique my interest by putting me down? No wonder you have such little success with your dates."

Pausing at the foot of the stairs, John gave one of his long-suffering sighs, letting his head slump forward for an exasperated second.

"All right, Sherlock" he said evenly, looking up. "What would you like me to do, then?"

The question hung in the air for a moment, and Sherlock took the time to quiet the surge of whispers bobbing to the surface of his brain, carefully smoothing the collar of his new jacket. He wished for a second for his long coat, which covered him from shoulders to knees to make a fantastic shield, leaving him invulnerable. Sadly, it was far too recognisable for a covert outing like this one.

"Really, John." His eyes scanned the horizon before settling on his friend. "I should have known you'd need guidance, given your track record. Would you like a write-up on normal dating behaviour? I can recommend a very informative web–"

John cut him off, waving his hands. "Fine, already. God, Sherlock. Just, I don't know. Stop it with all that."

Sherlock glared down at him. "Could you be a little more specific?"

"Shut up," said John mildly. "And give me your hand. We're going to hold hands, and we're going to go look for him. And then maybe we can finish this up and get out of the cold and get home."

He obeyed, reaching out his right hand to take John's left. With some irritation, he noted a flicker of mild discomfort across John's face. The last thing Sherlock needed right now was another masculinity crisis to derail this disguise; they'd have to change their whole story. Or maybe they ought to anyway – John's clothes were almost entirely wrong, despite the clear instructions Sherlock had given him. And he'd taken far too much time getting ready, so there was a good chance they'd missed Harmon's arrival and would have to suffer the special exhibition of horrid nonsense in the hopes of finding him. Of course Sherlock had an alternate plan for that scenario, but this tactic would be so much easier.

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Look, if you're going to–" he began, drawing himself up, but John was quick to cut him off again.

"No, it's just – here." John rearranged his grip on Sherlock's hand, slipping his smaller one behind and lacing his fingers through Sherlock's. "See?"

Oh. That was much better. Though his movement was still restricted (dangerously so, were this a combat situation), it was much less uncomfortable and almost pleasantly reassuring; maybe it wasn't such a mystery that people did this.

And how curious! How had he not noticed this phenomenon before? Why would one configuration be preferable to the other? Was it a simple matter of anatomical differences, or could there be social implications as well: the role of the leader and the follower, for instance? Did it have anything to do with John's left hand being his dominant one? Further study would certainly be necessary.

"Sherlock?" John asked, and Sherlock wanted to remove his gloves so he could catalogue the warmth of John's skin against his own cool fingers. John's grip was steady and his palm dry, but he couldn't quite believe that John was not self-conscious. They were surrounded by people (_a foreign tour group, Beijing by the harsh accent of their "shr" – the uneven clop clap clap of a young girl (five-four or so) still learning to walk in borrowed heels – a shrill-voiced man on his mobile_), so of course John would doubt his acting ability, worry that others would doubt his masculinity. But he would be fine if he allowed Sherlock to lead him.

Right, then. It was time. Sherlock took a deep breath, and let the mask fall over his face like a curtain, almost itching as he adjusted to this new skin. He gave John a warm smile, and it did meet his eyes – even if the smile was not his own, he was good at this.

"Come on, then," he felt his lips saying, and there was the urge to rearrange, to fix his features more suitably, more... ah, there, yes. That was it. "It's supposed to be quite good; everyone's talking about it. And if you hate it, I'll even buy you a pint after."

"Deal, then," John said, and the smile he returned did not look unnatural. "Or... wait, have you got your wallet today?"

Not-Sherlock laughed. "Of course I have! After you never let me hear the end of it last time!"

"You said you'd take me out, you insisted on ordering for me and you got it wrong, and then I ended up paying for both of us!"

"I said I was sorry – what else do you want from me?" Sherlock's words may have been combative but his voice, his body language were anything but. And John was grinning at him good-naturedly – this act was easy, almost too easy. John could be hopelessly uncomfortable in any role that wasn't medical or military (on multiple occasions, Sherlock had needed to excuse away John's reticence with flu or a hangover to avoid attracting suspicion), but here was a part he could play with familiar ease. They barely even had to lie, not really; it was enough to have a conversation they'd probably be having anyway and simply dial up the warmth.

"Well, I want to have a nice day out on our anniversary," John said, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "And I want you to pay."

Sherlock chuckled. "Anything else?"

Sherlock saw it on John's face – what he would have said on a date with a woman – and he also saw how reflexively John swallowed it down. The limit of John's comfort zone were so quick to reveal themselves... Annoying, but at least Sherlock could read him well enough to pick up the thread and shoot John's stifled response back at him.

"Or should we discuss that later?" Sherlock let his voice drop to a low rumble and John started, eyes darting to Sherlock's and away. For all the praise he lavished on Sherlock's deductions and insights, he could be very prickly when Sherlock demonstrated them with him as a subject.

Sherlock couldn't fathom why John would expect anything else; John _knew_ Sherlock. John had seen – how many times had John seen? – exactly how much he could glean about a total stranger from the scent of their clothes, the product in their hair, the chewed up pen in their jacket pocket. How could John fail to understand the degree to which these same techniques could be applied to him, with the added perception that came from their closeness?

It was not simple worry about what conclusions people might draw. John had long since stopped protesting when someone assumed they were together (John's marriage to Mary, Sherlock thought privately, had played a large role in this attitude adjustment; with irrefutable evidence of his heterosexuality, John was no longer so bothered by the occasional assumption to the contrary). No, what John objected to was Sherlock's showing off what an open book John was to him. There had always been times when it clearly irked him, but now, after Sherlock's return, it had become something very different. The memory of how Sherlock had deceived him so entirely, abandoned him without even a second thought or a moment of hesitation (in John's mind, at least) made being read and predicted so effortlessly and thoroughly salt in the wound.

And although John understood the situation now, and had forgiven Sherlock in all the important ways, still it was clear that he hadn't entirely accepted the truth as Sherlock had given it. John just didn't have the same conviction Sherlock did; in his mind, the vague belief that it _couldn't_ have been the only way – that there must have been another option – still lurked beneath the surface, colouring their interactions, their relationship, John's perception of Sherlock.

It was intolerable that the way John looked at him had changed. Their relationship would appear no different to an outsider (John still chased him – cursing – down alleyways, praised him, looked to him for answers, dissolved into giggles with him at the least opportune moments), but sometimes, Sherlock would catch John's eyes looking up at him through a veil of suspicion, like Sherlock's face was a mask and John was wondering what was underneath, suspecting that the mask was in place much more often than Sherlock would admit.

Seeing his one friend and the most honest man he knew look at him with eyes like those was suffocating, almost incapacitating. It made Sherlock want to grab John by the shoulders and scream into his face _I had to, I had to, don't you see what I had to do to save you?!_ and shake him until the pieces clicked into place and John's smile made the lines around his eyes crinkle and things went back to normal. But there had been several times where Sherlock had tried re-explaining himself, re-stating his reasoning, pleading to be understood, and there was just no response John could give, nothing new, nothing different. No matter how many times John swore that he understood, that Sherlock was forgiven, there was still something that refused to be fixed.

He was quickly beginning to regret this particular disguise. His initial pleasure at the potential expansion of John's acting repertoire had faded almost entirely; now he doubted he'd ask this role of John again as far as he could avoid it. Easy as it might be to act out a relationship not so unlike the one they already shared (and if this thought made something twist painfully in Sherlock's chest, nobody in the crowded plaza was any the wiser), he was undone by the little differences, the benign deceptions that only served to highlight the much bigger ones.

"Sherlock?" He jolted back into reality at the sound of his name and almost cursed aloud.Distraction, this had always been a distraction, how could he keep risking the Work when –

But John's face had gone serious, and his gray eyes were fixed on a point in the distance. His lips didn't move and his voice came in a low hiss from between his teeth, just this side of inaudible. "Sherlock, isn't that...?"

Sherlock followed the line of John's gaze across the plaza to... yes, there he was. He looked younger than the picture on his blog (making him very young indeed), and he couldn't have been long out of uni – some rudimentary research had revealed that he had dropped out after only a year and a half. He was thin and his skin had the dullish sheen of someone not yet capable of feeding himself healthy meals at regular hours.

Without meeting John's eyes, Sherlock gave a slight nod. John squeezed his hand (Sherlock noted – not for the first time – how naturally he accepted comfort and support from John, how odd it felt to actually be reassured by it), and they began to draw closer. The key was to meander, to cut a seemingly random path towards Harmon while still moving quickly enough to reach him before he decided to go inside.

His hair was in need of a cutting; grown out inadvertently for lack of cash (to judge from the state of his trainers) but flipped over his forehead to look stylish. Concerned with both his wallet and his appearance. Not unexpected given the sudden prominence of his blog. He was alone today, which was disappointing. In the presence of a potential sexual partner, particularly a first or second date, people became more approachable, more pliable and cooperative in fear of making a poor impression. And though Harmon was fiddling idly with his smartphone (an extravagant purchase that didn't register as such to someone of his generation), neither his clothes nor his body language suggested he was waiting for anyone. Just social media nonsense, like as not – incapable of trudging through the banalities of his day without sharing every one of them with the world. Tedious. The only thing that could make ordinary people more insufferable was a perceived audience.

Sherlock slid his own mobile from his pocket and stopped John just left of the center in Harmon's field of vision (or where he would have been looking were he not so absorbed in the device). "Oh, before I forget!" he exclaimed. "We ought to take a photo this time!"

"A photo?" John replied, sounding for all his life like the newest member of an improv troupe onstage in his first show (_yes, and...!_). "All right, where do you think?"

"Right here's fine, isn't it? With this weather, anywhere will look good – here..." Sherlock slipped his right arm around John's neck and pulled him close, relishing (despite himself) the way the bone of John's left shoulder – the one with the scar – dug into his side.

Angling his phone in the way he had practised, he leaned down with purposeful awkwardness and tried clumsily to set up the shot.

"Hang on," he said, and he was pleased at the way his voice sounded rich with laughter. "I can't get us both in – you're too short!"

"What?!" John responded with authentically ruffled feathers; a good shot of real life insecurity could be so effective. "You're having me on! Give me that!" In the periphery of Sherlock's vision, Harmon looked up from the screen. Good.

"No, no, look!" Sherlock brandished his own mobile, dissolving into chuckles, attention focused entirely on John. "It keeps cutting off my head! Is this why we never take photos?"

John took it from him, frowning, and held it out at arm's length, trying it for himself. "If we just..." he said. "No, but..."

"What are we going to tell the grandkids?" Sherlock chuckled. "That we have no pictures from when we were young because you couldn't be arsed to stand on your toes?" There was no denying that they had Harmon's attention now; his ears were perked up like a rabbit's and his body angled toward them, one foot ready to step forward and offer help.

"Shut up, you," John said good-naturedly, and the slap he delivered to Sherlock's shoulder was not without obvious affection. "As if it would kill you to stoop down to my level every once in a while."

"I'm sorry, but it's just so very far to go." Sherlock grinned into John's face, tracking movement out of the corner of his eye, and John opened his mouth to respond.

"I could take it for you," came an unfamiliar voice. _Success_. John beamed back up at Sherlock and his eyebrows rose very slightly, the soldier unable to resist celebrating their small victory.

Feigning surprise, Sherlock turned, blinking, to face Harmon. "Would you?" he asked. "Cheers!"

"No worries," Harmon replied.

Sherlock stepped forward and fiddled with the photo settings for a second. "That should be all right, then," he said. "See, you just press the –"

"Oh, I have the same one," Harmon assured him. "You're in good hands."

Sherlock nodded. "Well, thanks," he said, and extended a gloved hand to offer Harmon the mobile. He turned back to John and Harmon cut him off.

"Is here all right? With the steps in the background? We could find someplace better, if you like. I don't mind."

Thoughtful. (Irrelevant.) _How could it be_ – he could almost hear John thinking – _that someone so considerate and friendly could get involved in blackmailing politicians?_ It was foolish to assume that being accommodating to strangers precluded any association with the criminal element. Sherlock was happy to leave assumptions like that for normal people; he'd get his answers through a more objective method.

He looked at John questioningly, and John shrugged and smiled. "Right here is fine, but thanks."

"You don't want me to take it by the fountain or...?" His voice trailed off.

"Really, it's all right," John said. "Thank you, though."

Harmon stepped back and framed the shot. From a few metres away, it was easy enough to fit the two of them with little enough trouble – Sherlock could have done it himself with a little more effort, but then how would he engage his suspect?

He did seem so very young. Criminals his age tended to be involved in a much different variety of wrongdoing: graffiti, house-breaking, drug-running… the list went on and on, but it didn't usually extend to blackmail, and of a prominent public figure, no less. But even John had admitted that it was hard to feel sympathy for a man who railed against same-sex marriage in public, yet kept a string of young male lovers in his private life. But a crime against a deserving victim was still a case, and Sherlock had nothing else interesting on, so here they were.

"Say _cheese_!" Harmon called. "Or, uh... anything more modern than that!"

John chuckled at that, ensuring a real smile for the photo. There was the click of a shutter. Sherlock had his arm around John's neck again, and John's arm was wrapped comfortably around his waist.

"That was all right, I think, but move a little closer," Harlan said, squinting at the screen. "Try to look like you like each other!"

John gave a small huff of obligatory laughter, and pulled Sherlock closer, tugging his head downwards and pressing up against his side from knee to underarm. John's touch didn't tickle or creep beneath his skin like with most people's did; John's presence was a given, something his body anticipated and accepted. But it did give him a cold, heavy feeling to stand here like this, with John practically glued to his side, cheeks pressed together, smiles plastered on both their faces. This was a perfect picture of the way it should have been, the way it might have still been if things had never changed, if Sherlock hadn't needed to hide and John hadn't begun to doubt him.

The camera flashed and it dawned on him that he would now have photographic evidence of this shift, a series of concrete, freeze-frame images where he could study John's face at length, picking apart the lines from his smile and the tension in his forehead and the angle at which he tilted his head toward Sherlock's, and make himself dizzy with the changes, ill with the possibilities he found there.

"Oh, I think that one was nice," Harmon said, angling the screen away from the light. "How about one more? How about a kiss shot?"

Sherlock felt John stiffen against him, and his own spine suddenly seemed straighter as well. Harmon surely had left an adequate set of prints by now; Sherlock could thank him and get his mobile back and go home to analyse them against the ones found on the letters, and then, guilty or no, this would all be over and they wouldn't have to continue with this farce.

But John was looking up at him with a teasing smile, daring him. "How _about_ a kiss?" he asked. _This was your idea,_ said his eyes. _Look how clever it turned out to be._

Sherlock swallowed and tried to bury the shrieking, warning feeling that trembled in the pit of his stomach and rose in his throat (_you're not like them they're taking the piss don't trust them you'll be found out you can't_) and he held back a sigh as he dipped his head down to press a kiss in John's short, wiry hair. It felt much like he expected against his lips (no different than it did against his cheek when a chase left them crouched in a cupboard or behind a door, breathing through their noses, or against his neck when John gave in to his exhaustion and nodded off on Sherlock's shoulder in a cab) but it was different somehow, because never before had he felt so strongly the urge to touch, to run his fingers through John's hair, to inhale its smell and examine the different colours – to have the right to do these things.

He could hear laughter (not cruel laughter, though, the kind he always half expected), throaty and authentic, and he cursed Harmon for being so normal and so simple that this was amusing to him.

"Oh come on," Harmon called, and his voice was friendly, jocular. "Don't be bashful – you've found yourself someone fit, you can pucker up."

John was laughing, too; Sherlock could feel John's shoulders shaking gently against his abdomen. "He's just shy," John said, and they never got it right, did they? It wasn't shyness that led him to cut himself off from groups of people who would never understand him anyway. Sociopathy was an easy enough diagnosis (and God knew he had studied hard enough to ensure it was the one he ended up with) but all these words served for in the end was to shield a truth that was more complicated than that, something tangled and black and aching that Sherlock was sure they didn't have a name for.

But John's hand was on the back of his neck, pulling him downwards, and Sherlock could feel the individual pressure of each of his four fingers on his nape (slightly weaker than average for his little finger, repeatedly injured in rugby) and John's thumb over his carotid pulse. John's face was turned upward and his eyes were open (even though Sherlock knew that John had kissed Mary with his eyes closed – a giveaway, he realised, a sign that John was unsure he could hit his mark blind) but he wasn't laughing or looking at Sherlock like a specimen or an oddity; _grin and bear it_, said his eyes and the corners of his mouth, _we're in this together_.

John's lips were cool, slightly chapped by the late winter winds (Sherlock, for his part, resisted the urge to lick out and taste them, to learn them more thoroughly), and when they met Sherlock's, his eyes fell closed. His lashes were sandy against his cheeks and Sherlock could have counted them, was tempted to try. John kissed him differently than he had at the gallery: no flushed cheeks or probing tongue or crushing lips rich with the taste of scotch. This was close-mouthed, nearly chaste, the wedding kiss given to one's partner in front of family and friends and God.

That was a ridiculous thought, of course, because he'd barely ever been kissed before (particularly not in a church in front of his grandparents) and had so little basis for comparison. And it was entirely irrelevant besides; any time he spent cataloguing the differences between the two, any space he filled with the steadying warmth of John's palm on the back of his neck, the brush of John's nose against his cheek, the tickle of John's breath into his mouth would be a waste, stolen from the Work. Needless to say, it would also be a dead end because, as he surely wouldn't be asking John to play this part again, this was the last piece of such data he would ever obtain, a set that was doomed to be incomplete.

Knowing that, Sherlock should have wanted more. His mind, despite his objections, was already in overdrive to file away every small movement, every sensation, and it would have been advantageous to seize this opportunity, to wring everything out of it he could, just to have the memories. But instead, all he found he could do was breathe in the simplicity of the moment, thankful to have these two distinct kisses from John, amazed that one of them could be like this – his friend's arms around him, lips pressed warmly against his, not seeking or demanding, time seeming to stop as his forehead came to rest against John's brow.

The breath he had been holding rushed out as John pulled back, settling down on his toes. Sherlock saw that his hands were on John's shoulders; they fell to his sides reflexively.

"Did you get a good one?" John asked, and his voice was too loud – Sherlock was right there.

"A few!" A voice called back. Oh. And there was Harmon beside them. "I think you'll like the last one."

Sherlock saw John begin to reach out to take the mobile from him, but where were John's gloves? He stepped forward quickly, blocking the movement, and held out his own wool-clad hands. "Cheers," he said enthusiastically. "Let's see, then."

John leaned over the screen as well, and – yes, the picture looked fit for the cover of one of Mrs Hudson's romance novels. Or, rather, of a very similar novel – one more likely to feature two men kissing chastely on the steps of the British museum than an improbably statuesque hero and his voluptuous counterpart posed dramatically on tropical sands.

"That _is_ nice," John marvelled, as if Sherlock could stand to hear him mulling over what a pretty picture they might have made. "You must have a real eye."

Harmon laughed self-consciously. "No, the deck's just stacked in my favour today. Beautiful weather, great light, two people in love..."

Humiliatingly presumptuous, unforgivably sentimental. Foolish. John was smiling disarmingly. It was all Sherlock could do not to scoff.

"Anyway," said Harmon, grinding the toe of his trainer into the ground. "I'll let you guys enjoy your day, but um... I have this blog? And it's about visibility and normalisation and... anyway, you should check it out if you get a chance." He pressed a business card into John's hand. John gave it a once over and nodded.

"Sounds interesting," he said, smiling. "Enjoy the exhibit."

With a wave of his hand, Harmon disappeared up the marble stairs, and with every receding step, Sherlock felt his spine adjust and his features melt back to normal. He licked his lips and tested the movement of his tongue, his jaw.

"Shall I do the honours?" asked John, removing a zip bag from his pocket. Sherlock gave him a half smile and sealed the mobile inside.

xxx xxx xxx xxx

In the cab home, Sherlock was silent, thinking, but John wouldn't stop trying to engage him in conversation.

"Looks like we must have some good prints," he remarked lightheartedly. "He worked hard to get a good shot." His lips met in a hard line and his nose twitched. "Almost makes you like him."

Sherlock sighed. "He just has a pet cause, John – his blog is the way he makes a living."

John rubbed at a smudge on the seat between them. "Still, he wouldn't be doing it at all if he didn't care. I'd hardly bother with the blog in the first place if it was just to get you new cases."

"You don't have to bother; they come anyway."

John's frown flickered toward something deeper and he broke eye contact with Sherlock, and again they were stumbling awkwardly around the edges of another one of the unnavigable silences that had plagued them since Sherlock's return. John disapproved of the level of visibility Sherlock still maintained – no particular powers of deductive reason were necessary to figure that out. He may not have felt strongly enough to reconsider his involvement in the Work, but it still did not sit quite right with him.

But the simple fact of the matter was that there would not be another Moriarty; Sherlock was sure of it. Maybe eventually somewhere else in the world, but not in his London, not in his lifetime. He didn't believe in a higher power (save perhaps the one that Irene Adler had been astute enough to point out), and he scoffed at anyone who purported to predict or control the path before them, but all the same, he had the unshakable conviction that such an experience could not be replicated, that the rest of his life, however long or short, would be for telling different kinds of stories.

He had never admitted as much to John, of course; speaking the words aloud would be akin to confessing the extent to which he now permitted emotions ("gut feelings" – that was a term he could swallow more easily) to guide him. Besides, John would never accept the assurance, not with his own unlikely trajectory from the wrong end of an Afghani sniper's gun to the upstairs room at 221B to serve as a perfect example of the fickleness of fate. And even if John were to take his guarantee at face value, Sherlock knew that an attempt to open that kind of conversation would veer into territory where neither one of them was quite willing to venture. John would not relish reflecting on his pain, having to admit the anguish of fearing that it could happen again, recognising that none if this had ever been remotely secret from Sherlock.

"That's not really what I meant," John began reluctantly. "It just feels a bit manipulative, that's all."

"He's a criminal, John," said Sherlock. "We're doing this to 'set things right.'" He had never needed finger quotes; he found that he could communicate the same effect more than adequately with his voice alone.

"That doesn't matter, though, does it?" John shot back. "Not to you."

Sherlock fixed John with a haughty glare. If he didn't understand that by now, there was no point in telling him again.

John didn't wither or pull away. He stared right back at Sherlock. "I don't expect you to care," he said evenly. "Just don't act like you do."

He wasn't! Yes, John didn't expect him to, that much was true, but why would John imply that Sherlock was behaving otherwise? Try as he might, e couldn't come up with any possible motive, and it put him on edge. He fumbled with the plastic bag in his lap and didn't speak for the rest of the ride back to Baker Street, where he left John to pay the cabbie and dedicated himself to making an atonal racket with his violin until John finally disappeared to the pub for the evening.

In the end, Harmon's fingerprints did match the ones they'd found on the letter. Sherlock had been reasonably sure that they would (and his "reasonably sure" was a great deal better than the average person's guarantee) but still he felt a strange pang in his gut as he replaced the cap on the talcum powder and texted Lestrade, telling him to bring him in for further question. He heard the answering _ping!_ a few moments later but left the mobile where it lay on the kitchen table. He wasn't overly keen on helping with this case much more; it was one Lestrade's team should be able to work out for themselves anyway. Amateurs didn't tend to be particularly adept at hiding their tracks.

He tried to bury himself in an experiment, but the nagging feeling just wouldn't go away, and after several minutes of distracted effort, he put the head back in the fridge and picked up his mobile again.

_I was right, _he texted John.

_Good on you,_ came the response. _The blackmail thing?_

Sherlock frowned down at the screen. He still felt antsy; that must not have been quite what he needed. He hit "reply" but hesitated, closed the window, and tossed his phone back and forth in his hands before opening it again.

_Usually, being right feels better than this._

There was an uncharacteristically long pause before John replied. Sherlock could tell he wasn't involved in anything in particular, but still there was a delay. When the response did come, Sherlock surprised himself (as much as the world's only consulting detective can be surprised, that is) with the speed with which he snatched it back up.

_I feel the same way, _John had written. _Not sure how that will make you feel._

Sherlock wasn't either, to be honest. But if he had to compare himself to an ordinary person, he supposed John would do. John had reasons for acting the way he did. Often they were sentimental or misguided or entirely idiotic, but Sherlock didn't believe that they were ever really wrong. Not in the important ways anyway.

His phone pinged again. _Angelo's tonight?_ So John must think that he was upset, then. Interesting.

_I don't mind,_ Sherlock typed out and hit send.

John returned with a smiley face and then, on its heels: _Which question were you answering?_

Sherlock ignored the question. _Today is Monday? We'll have to pass on the scampi_.

xxx xxx xxx xxx

John had every intention, Sherlock could tell, not to mention it at all, and that was something he had to appreciate. But then, John spent the entire meal twitching uncomfortably until finally, after a few glasses of wine, he stumbled through a very transparent segue into a rambling story about some wrong done by one of his patients and how he had agonised over what he should do. Part of him had wanted to see the man arrested because wrong was wrong, but then his children would suffer without a father (though he'd also wondered if it wouldn't be better to have no one at all than a father like that), and he had understood in his heart of hearts that being punished would never change the father's behaviour anyway. As their plates were cleared away, John told Sherlock how ultimately, he had done nothing but pass the information along, hoping that someone else would be able to make better judgement.

He took another sip of wine and met Sherlock's eyes with a self-conscious smile, and Sherlock loved him for it, loved him for his goodness and the transparency of his good intentions and his bashfulness. John cleared his throat. "I know you know why I told you all that, but let's just pretend we both don't, all right? Know, that is."

Sherlock felt himself begin to smile, and he called Angelo over to order dessert. He would pretend whatever John needed him to, and John would do the same for him. That would continue to be enough. It would have to be.

NOTES:  
These were meant to be short, fluffy things designed to get me to write, and here I am with 6000 words of angst and a close-mouthed kiss. Oops.

Thank you for all your feedback on the first chapter! I hope you enjoyed this one as well.


	3. Revenge

Sherlock flipped through the contents of the file one final time, and as he set it down on the table, he felt his surroundings beginning to fade back in around him. The noise of afternoon traffic from the street outside, the telly blaring in the sitting room, the bin overflowing with crumpled tissues, sounds of respiratory distress from the direction of the couch.

He rose to a standing position from his crouch on the hard kitchen chair, perching like a sea captain at the bow of his ship. He could see John collapsed on the sofa, wallowing in the nonsense on the telly, the traitorous weakness of his own immune system. Sherlock found there to be many benefits to sharing his living space with a doctor, not the least of which was a sneak preview of the latest flu or virus before it spread to the rest of London. In past cases, the insight this had afforded him had been invaluable, but John never seemed to appreciate being treated as patient zero when he complained of a tickle in his throat (people did say that doctors make the worst patients; possible subject for further study). He had been particularly uncooperative the previous night, so Sherlock had assumed that he must be regaining his strength, but this morning had found John looking worse than ever.

He jumped down from his chair, bare feet slapping the cold floor, dressing gown swishing around his knees. "John," he said expectantly.

John looked up from his programme, "C'n see me again, can you?" Congestion rendered his speech thick, his nasal phonemes into Bs and Ds. He was holding a hot water bottle to his forehead, and Sherlock could hear a lozenge clicking against his teeth.

Teasing, affection. Irrelevant. "Any news?"

"Didn't hear me an hour ago, then." John's eyes were on the telly again. It showed two men – one tall and lanky, one short with a shock of dark hair – walking briskly down an alley, clearly fleeing someone. "Lestrade's out. Says he's done with it, he's not putting his career on the line for something that's not even police business. Says the ring escapade nearly gave him an ulcer."

Disappointing. It wasn't as if Sherlock had coerced Lestrade into providing cover for them; it hadn't even been one of Sherlock's cases from the blog. If Lestrade was feeling ill-used, then he could confront Mycroft about it himself. There was no reason to punish Sherlock just because his self-important, preening prat of a brother couldn't come up with a better way to return a bit of jewelry to its original owner without causing an international incident.

"Plan B, then," said Sherlock, checking his mobile to re-confirm the time and venue. Things would be a little tight given the adjustments they'd have to make, but they should be able to pull it off nonetheless.

"Good luck," John said absently, and raised his mug to his lips. From the telly there came the wail of police sirens, and after an instant of panic, the dark-haired man pushed the other against the wall and began snogging him furiously. His companion flailed his long limbs, struggling valiantly for great comic effect. The two characters did not appear to be in a romantic relationship, and there was no particular tension between the actors, one of whom had been spending his spare time looking for a nicer flat but had enjoyed little luck so far. The other had asked a woman out that very morning and been rejected.

John clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I can't taste this at all," he complained. Whinging about such mild, pedestrian symptoms was unbecoming of a doctor, particularly an army doctor. It irritated Sherlock, who knew John to be made of stronger stuff.

"Dump it out, then," he said. "We only have a few minutes before we have to leave."

"We?" repeated John incredulously.

"What about those bins over there?" demanded the tall man, waving his hands angrily. Irish accent. Former goalkeeper. The wail of sirens began again and then they were locked in another embrace against the wall as a parade of police cars hurtled by them one after another.

"Semi-formal will be appropriate. Can you be ready in fifteen minutes? I'll call a cab."

"Sherlock, I'm not going out like this." John gestured at the blankets strewn across the couch, his prone posture, the crumpled pile of tissues on the side table. "I'm ill."

Any idiot could see that; pointing out the fact hardly constituted a logical argument. "It should be a simple enough operation, John. Little risk. I don't imagine it will take more than half an hour."

"I'm sorry, but I'm just not up to it. I need to rest." It would help John's cause to look more pathetic and less angry. If he was well enough to raise his voice, he was well enough for the simple mission Sherlock had in mind.

"I only need you for back-up, in case it goes pear-shaped," Sherlock said. "And as I've already told you, that's entirely unlikely; all we need to do is get her to eat one little bite, one canapé, then we can pick up and leave."

"If it's that simple, I'd rather just stay here." John took another sip of his tea and flopped back dramatically. Sherlock glowered at him, something tightening in his throat.

That was exactly the problem: it wasn't that simple. It never was anymore, because Sherlock had allowed John to become indispensable. He _could_ work alone, yes, it would be a lie to say otherwise, but it made him helpless and weak. It was like being without his skeleton. Somehow his muscles and his organs and his skin would remember the shapes they were supposed to maintain, so they could keep him together and no one else would be the wiser, but it took all Sherlock's energy just to go through the motions with a nauseating fear, knowing how readily he would crumble at the slightest blow. John was his armour, his source of light. Alone, he was distracted, vulnerable, nursing blind spots – which was unacceptable because Sherlock was supposed to be the only one who could _see_, really see. And simply knowing that he wasn't his best self made him more prone to slip-ups, to misses and stumbles, because if he couldn't be the cleverest, why was he even there in the first place? What use could he possibly be?

And of course John was a sentimental man, and he placed great value on emotions (particularly, whatever varieties thereof were dogged enough to plague Sherlock), so obviously things would change if John only understood. If Sherlock could tell John how his acting fell flat when he couldn't look at the only face he could really read, or how key details could slip through his grasp when he couldn't hear the hum of John's voice chatting with Lestrade or Dimmock, then John would be there, John would come. It was as simple as that. But it wasn't the kind of thing one could just admit, was it? Even before, those words would have been beyond Sherlock, but now, remembering how he had returned to London to find that John had picked himself up and moved on, moved in with a woman, settled down for a normal life? That had left as he was, married to his work, but the Work barely got off the ground without John. It wasn't fair. It wasn't simple. He gritted his teeth.

"John," he said, and he wasn't pleading, and his voice didn't exactly crack (and no one could have said otherwise because it would have been a lie), but something in the way he sounded made John look up. John studied him expectantly for a second and Sherlock felt something in his jaw twitch (should he say _please?_ And then _I need you?_) but then John was nodding, sighing thinly, setting his tea aside.

"All right," he said. "I'll find my suit."

xxx xxx xxx xxx

Not more than fifteen minutes could have passed since they arrived, but Sherlock's tolerance for their suspect was already wearing thin. It seemed almost like Amelia Reedus existed solely to flaunt her new-earned wealth. Everything about her was expensive and ostentatious, and she dominated her conversations, demanding the full attention of whoever was speaking. She was absolutely exhausting (not to mention almost certainly guilty), and it took not inconsiderable effort for Sherlock to keep up his end of their chat with one eye still on the trays of canapes being circulated. There were a few different options that could serve in a pinch – grilled prawns on sugarcane skewers, seared scallops with a balsamic glaze – but reassuring as it was to have a back-up, Sherlock was comfortable with his plan and he was going to stick to it.

He had called the party planner as the caterer, explaining that the caviar was ruined but don't worry, they would replace it with crab and salmon toasts – gratis, of course. Those, he'd had made up by a local bistro whose owner owed him a favour, and although they'd sat in the freezer overnight (he'd had to move his bag of lungs downstairs to Mrs Hudson's for lack of space, but he was sure he could get it back before she noticed), they'd thawed out without showing any wear whatsoever.

Amelia was no gourmand; she'd not notice the difference if she was told it was only salmon. Or at least not until she had already taken a bite, at which point Sherlock's theory would be proven – unless she did happen to have the serious shellfish allergy that she claimed, that was. And Sherlock felt very certain that she did not (and even if she did, someone with such severe reactions would be sure to carry her EpiPen at all times – and if that particular accessory had been sacrificed to the gods of cocktail party fashion, there was always John). He had been sure she was lying since he had first reviewed her file, and over the course of their conversation, he had only become more so; with regard to the few appetisers that had come their way so far, the only thing that seemed to concern her was gluten content. So the question lay elsewhere: was she fastidious enough in her falsehood to maintain it in front of an unrelated stranger? Sherlock suspected she was not – most people simply lacked the foresight – but as he could not discount the possibility entirely, he had determined the most effective plan of attack to be a small plate, a lie, and a gushing, "Oh Amelia, you simply must!"

John had asked whether he'd consider feeding her from his hand if that would do the trick. That sounded incredibly unpleasant, not to mention unsanitary... and while Sherlock might have tried it as a last resort under different circumstances, for a really brilliant case, this was only another one of Mycroft's. Not worth it. John had laughed at that, which had sent him into a prolonged coughing fit, but when he finally got his breath back, he told Sherlock that his priorities seemed to be in good order.

Amelia's fingernails were long and red, curling possessively around the stem of her wineglass. She drank white, of course – with a dress that expensive, she could hardly risk a spill when she threw her head back to laugh too loudly, made a swooping hand gesture to show of the sparkle of sapphire on her right ring finger, or nearly overbalanced leaning forward to touch Sherlock's arm (without even the sense to take his pulse, to see if her interest was returned; God, she was so boring).

John was standing at the other side of the room nursing a mineral water, looking miserable. He'd loosened his tie somewhat – it must have been too tight on his sore throat – and there were dark circles under his eyes. Every few minutes, he'd raise his arm and cough politely into the fold of his elbow. And as often as he could manage, he'd turn towards Sherlock and glare. Unsurprisingly, most of the guests seemed to be avoiding him, though Sherlock hardly thought that was something to lament; they would invariably be horrendously boring, and in the unlikely event that even one of them wasn't, Sherlock was not exactly eager for that person to find his John.

"And what else _could_ she have been saying but 'daughter'?" Amelia asked, leaning in conspiratorially, eyes gleaming. "It's so exciting, don't you think?" She touched his arm, dragged her fingertips down his wrist. From the opposite wall, John was staring daggers (though not for the reason Sherlock would have liked). He gestured pointedly at his wristwatch and took another sip of his drink. His cheeks were flushed pink and sweat stood out on his brow. Sherlock shot John a glare of his own and returned to his conversation.

Sherlock sipped his drink and made the minimal response necessary to keep Amelia engaged. His attention was now on John, who had abandoned his post by the window, apparently looking to take matters into his own hands. He watched as John stopped a waiter (aspiring sculptor, hindered by a drug habit and early onset arthritis) and asked him a question, indicating the tray. He shook his head, and John moved on to the next white-shirted, black-trousered staff member (who was preoccupied with the idea that his girlfriend was cheating on him – she wasn't but if he continued badgering her about it, she might start).

Sherlock took a deep breath in through his nose. This could upset his plan entirely. He needed John to be patient. Most of the guests were too self-absorbed to really notice anyone outside their immediate social circle (on the other side of the room, John was on the verge of sneezing but holding it back), but he couldn't count on them ignoring John forever.

But it wasn't long before John managed to find their man – woman, rather. And she was wary of him, understandably, because she didn't want to be sick for her third (fourth?) marathon, which she'd be running over the weekend. She nodded in response to his question and offered him a small plate, and he popped the morsel into his mouth and chewed with gusto. Sherlock almost smirked; John didn't care for crab (and likely couldn't taste it anyway), and his performance was a little overzealous. Now he was gesturing toward Sherlock, probably asking her to bring some round to his friend who just loved crab, and she was all too happy to oblige if it could mean extracting herself from the conversation.

But that was all wrong! It wasn't meant to come to them on a platter; that gave Amelia the chance to ask what was in it. Sherlock had planned to offer to refresh her drink and then _come back_ with a few appetisers on a small plate! John's impatience could have compromised everything. His mind raced, trying to figure out how he could prevent her from finding out. If she asked what it was, could he stare into her eyes, mumble something about living dangerously, and offer to finger-feed her? It sounded utterly repulsive, but her pupils were dark and round, and her chest was thrust toward him – she'd likely be receptive. But how to prevent the waitress from telling her first?

His partner seemed to be reaching the end of her story. "And you knew what he spent for it, you would just die," she gushed.

Sherlock echoed her laugh (what _was_ one meant to say to that?), and half-choked on his wine as he looked up to see the waitress already in front of them. He wanted to speak up, say anything, anything at all – _These look lovely, thank you, now be on your way!_ – but he couldn't have spoken without spitting out his mouthful of Bordeaux, ruining his shirt and Amelia's silvery cocktail dress. He cursed John and his ridiculous cold and his needy patients who took his time from Sherlock and made him sick and rendered him useless.

"Crab and salmon mousse," the waitress said pleasantly, holding out the tray.

The suspect made a small noise of pleasure. "Oh, that sounds delightful," she said, taking two. Sherlock watched, hardly believing his luck, as she popped the first in her mouth and chewed luxuriantly, eyes falling closed. He cleared his throat and found he was able to breathe again. "I just adore crab," she said in a low, husky voice. "Mmm, you _must_ try one."

She pinched the little toast between her thumb and forefinger, holding it a few inches from Sherlock's lips. Her eyes were half closed, her eyelids heavy. Sherlock panicked. His skin crawled and he fought to un-grit his teeth, to put a pleasant smile on his face, and before he knew what he was doing, he was dipping his head to take it from her fingers. Didn't she know the kinds of thing people touched, the germs their hands picked up? Not to mention the human mouth! And what kind of person would initiate such a bizarre pseudo-sexual, nearly oedipal ritual with an unwilling stranger?

He closed his lips around it and bit, but the feeling of her eyes on him was so strong that he barely tasted anything. For a second, he fretted that his body might betray his discomfort, but his throat cooperated and he swallowed it down without gagging.

"Mmm," he agreed weakly.

Immediately, he felt heat in his cheeks and a cold weight in his stomach. Why had he done that? He and John had discussed an almost identical scenario (albeit with some sarcasm), giving him the opportunity to establish his distaste for the whole song and dance, and yet he had responded almost reflexively and caved to her request. Could he have been so relieved not to have his plan ruined, his efforts wasted that he had acquiesced, unthinkingly, out of simple gratitude? Absurd.

Footsteps approaching from his right side. John's. This was a cocktail party; no one marched that quickly, that purposefully across a room without attracting attention. What was he thinking? Was he thinking at all?

Sherlock turned to face him, allowing his anger to flash in his eyes for an instant, but John looked unfazed, staring back at him with an expression of blank exhaustion.

"I'm sorry," he said, and there was an edge to his voice, "but do you think we could get going now? It looks like you're about done here, and I'm well-knackered." As he spoke, he reached out to take Sherlock's hand gently in his own, running his thumb gently over Sherlock's knuckles.

Holding hands? That wasn't the plan! Sherlock had not asked, would not ask John to play this role again. Why improvise? What on earth did he think he was doing? And the woman had noticed it; out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock had seen her go tense for a moment, staring at their joined fingers. He could have killed John.

Thought there was hardly any reason to stick around now, was there? He took a deep breath in through his nose and exhaled softly. Might as well play along so he could get John out of here and give him a piece of his mind.

"You want to go home?" he asked, sounding surprised. He traced a slow line across John's palm, digging his sharp thumbnail into the sensitive skin. "Already?"

"I have things to take care of today, in case you've forgotten." John, who gave as good as he got, should have retaliated by squeezing tighter, crushing Sherlock's fingers together painfully, but he didn't react at all. Was it because he was too sick to care, or did he plan to take his revenge in another way? He was nearly swaying on his feet, so Sherlock was inclined to assume the former, but John was one of the few people who was capable of surprising him. He'd better keep on his guard. Best to get out of here quickly and avoid it affecting the case.

"Oh, of course," he said. "Just give me a moment to say goodbye, would you?"

"Sure, cheers." John nodded amicably and took one small step forward into Sherlock's space (alarm bells were ringing), then another, so close Sherlock could smell him – first, the familiar scents of his shampoo, cologne, his skin – but then something stronger, more overpowering: the sickly sweet smell of his fever, the virus, a racial memory ingrained in his consciousness for the purpose of self-preservation. _Fascinating_, Sherlock had time to think as John went up on his toes to press their bodies together, _to what degree would I be able to distinguish_ –

And then John tugged his head down, hands sweat-sticky and rough on the back of his neck, and crushed Sherlock's mouth to his. There was just enough time to register how unbelievably hot his lips were before John, wasting no time, angled his neck to slide his tongue into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock wasn't even trying to stop him; paralysed, his hands rested limply by his sides, caught in between knowing that this farce was all he could have – no matter how badly he wanted, and _God_, how he wanted – and the risk of compromising the investigation. The wracking cough he had heard keeping John awake all last night was all but forgotten as Sherlock, senseless, let John kiss him hot and wet and dirty. John's skin was hot against his cheek, burning. His goal seemed to be to imprint himself onto Sherlock's mouth as much as he could, one hand gripping Sherlock's curls for leverage to press closer.

They hadn't planned this and Sherlock didn't know how to react: would it be more natural, better for the case for him to (_give in to what he so desperately wanted and_) reciprocate like a willing participant, or for him to curtail this all-too-public display as fast as possible? Both seemed like the right answer but neither would give him what he wanted in the end (John, Christ Jesus, John) and his heart was pounding, so he took in a little gasp of breath and tried to focus, to _think_. But then John's tongue pulled back, John's lips moved lightly against his, and Sherlock's eyes opened to see John pulling away, wiping his mouth discreetly, pointedly ignoring the stares they had attracted.

"I'll just collect my coat," John told him with perfect calm. "You can meet me out in front."

Sherlock may have nodded – he wasn't sure – but John turned on his heel and was gone. He could feel expectant eyes on him and he heard someone clearing their throat, and he turned back to find Amelia grinning at him from behind her hand.

"The jealous type?" she asked, eyes gleaming. "I'm so sorry, by the way; if I'd have guessed –"

"No, no," said Sherlock, blinking. And then, because it was all he could really manage, "No."

She just nodded, seeming to find this a perfectly acceptable response. "I can hardly blame him, though – just look at you!" She grinned predatorily, and Sherlock should have responded with a smile, even a weak one, but he couldn't. Amelia tilted her head and she peered up at him inquisitively. "He did look a little bit peaky, though, didn't he? You ought to stock up on Vitamin C. It's that time of year."

xxx xxx xxx xxx

His skin was too hot and someone had stretched it too tight over his bones. When he sneezed, he could almost feel his brain striking against the walls of his skull. The whisper of water boiling itched intolerably, and his head ached just anticipating the noise of the kettle. When it did come, it sent a wave of nausea through him before it was lifted from the range, its shriek cut off in a vaporous sigh. Sherlock pressed his face deeper into the sofa cushions and curled in on himself, trying to concentrate his discomfort into the smallest space possible.

There was the gentle tap of a mug being placed carefully on the side table, followed by a shift of weight on the couch beside him. "Budge your feet," came John's voice, and Sherlock groaned but obliged. John settled in comfortably, and when Sherlock felt him lean forward to pick something up, he steeled himself for the merciless racket of the telly. But John was kind and apparently John felt badly because he left the remote where it was and picked up a book, and Sherlock could withstand the husking of paperback pages turning.

Sherlock shifted his weight to align the soles of his feet against the muscleof John's outer thigh. The denim was rough against his bare skin but the straight, flush line they formed was orderly, comforting. He coughed into the pillow, back arching, and saw a flash of stars.

"A productive cough," John observed. "Good sign, that."

Sherlock sat up, noting the progression of ache in each muscle he moved. He picked up the mug of tea John had brought him and held the warm porcelain against his chin, breathing deeply, allowing the steam to seep into the deepest pockets of his lungs. He coughed once, dryly, to clear the airway. He could feel John's eyes on him, examining, cataloguing symptoms, but he didn't want to be doctored or questioned; he just wanted to sink into the sofa and sleep until this was all over. He took a deep draught of his tea and it burned all the way down.

When he looked up from the mug, John was trying to appear absorbed in his book, though surely he knew he wasn't fooling Sherlock, probably wouldn't even fool Anderson. Eyes still tracking across the page, John said, "You could let me take your temperature, though."

Sherlock coughed again and fixed his eyes straight ahead. "_High_," he sniffed. "No need."

John sighed. "Of course not."

Sherlock took another sip of his tea. His clothes were damp and heavy with sweat, and he wanted to kick off the blanket, but he was starting to get chills again. It was a cruel curse to be hot and cold at the same time. His feet, at least, were free of the blanket, shocked by the cool air, but they still remembered how dry and steady John had felt, how grounding the human contact had been. If he was going sleep his way through this torture, then John was his best bet.

He set his full mug down on the table and worked his long legs back, leaning sideways until his head (feverish, over-ripe, ready to split) rested on the cool fabric of John's jeans. John didn't startle or protest, just sat still and let him get comfortable. Sherlock closed his eyes and listened to the traffic patterns outside. Usually, they were so distinct, so eloquent in what they had to tell him, but today, he was too exhausted and his head too heavy, and they blurred and jumbled together unintelligibly so as to present him no useful insight whatsoever. Was this what ordinary people heard all the time? Pitiful, really.

Sherlock felt pressure against his damp forehead, John's hand cool and firm against his clammy skin. It rested there a few seconds longer than strictly necessary (his temperature must have been as high as he'd thought, then) before moving to brush Sherlock's hair back into place. Oh, that felt good. He sighed involuntarily and John did it again, this time just running his hand over the locks he had already tamed. Then once more, fingers through combing through curls, nails trailing along his scalp.

"I'm sorry, you know," he said, and hearing John's voice from this angle was novel. "I feel really badly." Sherlock just breathed, focusing on the feather-light touch, the balm, the distraction. He stretched out his legs in pleasure and John chuckled, low and deep. He began to massage Sherlock's scalp with his fingertips, and Sherlock felt the bones of his neck, shoulders, hips shifting to open to John's touch.

"I'm more of a bastard than you are," John whispered. "You should be careful."

It was dark behind Sherlock's eyelids, finally. The noises of the street outside, the buzz of the fridge, the muffled hum of Mrs Hudson's radio downstairs all faded away and his world shrank down to two small points: John's fingers rubbing slow circles against his temples. Peace spread warmly through him. He stifled a cough.

"People say the pressure can help," said John's voice. Both hands, it was. He had put down his book. "Is it all right?"

Sherlock tried to reply, but just made a noise deep in his throat. He'd intended it to be a more coherent response, but the sound was just dragged from him. His head… the relief was so great that he could almost think again. Or he could have, if the gentle pressure of John's fingertips wasn't slowly lulling him senseless.

John's movements felt well-practised. Given his medical background, it was natural that he would have an intimate understanding of anatomy, of pressure points and tension and relief, but this was hardly the kind of thing most doctors did for their patients. Had he done this for Mary, then? Surely he had. Sherlock would not have been there to see it – his brief relationship with John's wife had been strained enough, and seeing John like that would have been too much for him to bear – but there must have been days when she had found the world too brash, unbearably loud and bright, or when her medication had left her too weak and nauseated to function. And obviously John would have been there to comfort her, in whatever ways he could, would have done anything to make it a little easier for her. That was who John was, what he did. It couldn't have gone any other way

"You'd be more comfortable if you took something," John said softly.

Sherlock began to shake his head and immediately regretted the small motion. "Takes longer," he said, and the hoarseness of his unused voice surprised him.

"Yes, I'm aware… I _am_ a doctor, you know." John's thumbs dipped briefly to his cheekbones and rubbed a path back up to his temples. "When the fever breaks. Will you take something then?"

So John wasn't thinking of Mary. Regardless of how he might have taken care of her towards the end, now, in this moment, he was present, he was focused on Sherlock. Though, upon second thought, how could Sherlock have ever expected him to confuse the two? Sick as Sherlock may have felt, it was rather easy to differentiate this scene from a deathbed, especially considering that John had just got over the same cold himself.

John had given up waiting for a response and his hands were back in Sherlock's hair again, slower and gentler now, surely aiming to put him to sleep. Surprisingly, Sherlock did feel like he might be able to rest. It was dark and cool, he was cradled and cushioned from harm, and his head was no longer throbbing so persistently. He was all too content to drift away like this, to slip into a fever dream, trusting his body to John until he could be more present, until he was strong enough. And John should know, Sherlock thought foggily. John was far from stupid, but who knew what he actually could see? John should know that he was trusted and treasured and loved. John may have been the one to do this to him, to trick him into succumbing to the gross physical limitations of his flesh, but John was also the only one who could make it bearable. John was essential to Sherlock, and it would be absurd to allow their partnership to fall apart due to his not knowing. Now that he realised it, it was almost painfully simple: love John, tell John, keep John.

He fought up against the fog of sleep and fever to find his voice. "John," he said. Should he open his eyes? He made an effort and caught a glimpse of John looking down at him, face lined with concern, but the edges of the picture were too bright and his eyes stung, so he closed them again.

"John," he repeated. His tongue felt thick and oddly fuzzy. "John, you're esseminal." He coughed. Wrong, try again. "Seminal." No, not quite. "Central?" Not exactly, but close somehow.

"Is that so?" John's thumb stroked a broad line across Sherlock's forehead.

Of course it was; why would he have bothered saying it otherwise? Who would waste their strength telling lies when speaking was already such a battle?

"John," he insisted, and John's fingers trailed a path down the bridge of his nose and back up. "John, you're a treasure."

"Shh," whispered John, and warm fingertips smoothed over his eyebrows.

This wasn't going right at all. Sherlock blinked up at John against the stinging light and – oh. John was smiling at him. Maybe he did understand.

"Go to sleep, Spock," said John, and Sherlock's eyes fell shut. "We can talk when you're feeling better. Get some rest."

That didn't sound like a bad idea, to be honest. John could be very insightful from time to time. But there was one more thing Sherlock had to clarify.

"John," he said.

"What is it, Sherlock?" There was a faintly amused note to John's voice, like he was about to start laughing. Absurd. Inappropriate. This was a serious discussion.

"You can't leave," Sherlock told him, and for a brief second, John's fingers stopped entirely, then began moving counterclockwise, as if all he had intended to do was reverse direction. "I've said it and so now you can't leave."

Sherlock felt much lighter. He was glad to have taken care of that. He could hear John's breathing. John was no doubt very impressed; despite his fever, Sherlock's head was clear enough to see through their problem and find the solution. But John was still just breathing, not saying anything, and so Sherlock reached up blindly to touch his arm.

John caught Sherlock's hand in his and held it for a moment, running his thumb over the knuckles. Sherlock heard him lick his lips and open his mouth to speak. His voice was hoarse, and very soft.

"No… I can't. You're right. You idiot." John set Sherlock's hand gently on his chest, gave it a perfunctory pat, and resumed his massage. He cleared his throat. "I'm not going anywhere, you great, daft wanker."

So it was settled, then. Sherlock wanted to speak up, to tell John what a relief it was, how happy it made him to hear that, but he was so small and far away, and so he let himself drift, falling asleep with John's hands in his hair, listening to John's breathing even out and deepen.

NOTES  
・As I was writing this story, I started to come down with John's symptoms one by one. It was absurd. You'd think someone who reads as much Stephen King that I do would have been freaked out but really, I was just annoyed because I had it all figured out in my head but was too exhausted and sick to get it down on paper. Feeling better now, though!

・There's a reference to my favorite episode of The IT Crowd. I wanted to do that for one of the chapters but ended up going with the camera thing instead, so I thought I'd throw it in.

・The next chapter (probably the next two, to be honest) might be a little bit slow because there's a lot I want to work in. If anyone has the time or the inclination to do a little bit of betaing, I can't even describe how grateful I'd be.

・Thank you for reading!


	4. The Footsteps

WARNING: Unapologetic Hollywood medical science! And maybe something else but that's the only warning you're going to get.

"Just hurry up, will you?" John hissed, eyes darting frantically up and down the long corridor. He was positioned so as to obscure Sherlock's crouching form from any chance passersby, but a shifty-eyed man trying to look nonchalant outside a locked door didn't exactly inspire a sense of security either.

"I'm working as fast as I can," Sherlock shot back, twisting the picks in the lock, listening intently for a click. The ground lurched beneath their feet, and John stumbled and Sherlock cursed. His picks fell to the floor with a high, resonating _ting!_, and he scrambled to retrieve them before they could slide away.

"You'd think such a big ship would be a bit sturdier," said John, steadying himself against the doorframe.

"Yes, well, apparently the universe is conspiring to make this even harder than it has to be." Sherlock was back to the lock, working at it diligently, long fingers slowly moving in units too small for the human eye to measure.

"Maybe if you'd, I dunno, tell me more about what we're doing here, I could be a bit more helpful," John said. "Instead of just standing around like a—"

"The most helpful thing you can do is shut up and let me work," Sherlock snapped.

John knew better than to take the vitriol to heart, and even if he hadn't, his skin was thick enough by now. Sherlock was combative on his best days, and clearly he wasn't in top shape now—John remembered well from the Tilly Briggsaffair how long it took Sherlock to get his sea legs. Come to think of it, it was a good job that their suspect (or suspects, maybe; Sherlock seemed to be aiming for a record low in information disclosure with this case) had booked this trip with a different agency. While the lawsuit they'd threatened had never materialised, John highly doubted that they could have been persuaded to let the pair of them back on again, not for love nor money nor Mycroft.

Tilly Briggs had been so long ago—it was strange to think about it now. In those days, each case, every line they had toed had seemed to John like the most daring thing he would ever do, and each word out of Sherlock's mouth had amazed him, really amazed him. Well, he supposed at least that hadn't changed so much; even now, Sherlock still managed to amaze him almost every day. But it had been different back then, so blindingly new, gleaming like an undiscovered city. And John, who just a few short weeks before meeting Sherlock had been unable to taste his food, who had spent every night at his bedsit cleaning his illegal service revolver, stashing it away in a drawer like a key—he had been dazzled by every last moment of it, carried away, barely able to hear his own voice over the pounding of his heart.

And then there it came—the telltale click, sharp and commanding—but John didn't need to hear it; he already knew from the way Sherlock's spine had arched, the way his neck snapped back, eyes blazing: they were in.

Once inside the cabin (larger than theirs; the last minute nature of this adventure meant that they had ended up crammed into a twin, and a small one at that), Sherlock paused to take stock, surveying everything that lay before him like a bird of prey. John stepped around him and settled onto a hard wooden bench, which was bolted to both the floor and the portside wall. The bed would have been more comfortable, but he didn't want to have to straighten up the duvet to cover their tracks. Sherlock soon lay upon the optimal order of investigation and began to ransack the cabin systematically, searching for the drugs Dimmock was sure their suspects were running.

John tried to keep an eye on the door, but it was hard not to watch how the evening light streaming in through the small circular window played across Sherlock's features, almost like flickering candlelight, and it made him want to look at his friend through the same eyes he had years ago. Back then, Sherlock had been wrong, once: John had not been trying to get off with him that first awkward night, had never even thought about a bloke that way before. And John had wondered at first how someone who was that perceptive—who dedicated himself entirely to perception at the expense of normalcy—could have been so grossly mistaken, got the signals so wrong. But then in the weeks and months that followed, chasing down suspects on the tails of Sherlock's black greatcoat, holding back giggles at crime scenes and leaping breathless from rooftop to rooftop, John had begun to wonder whether the improbable genius he was learning to consider a friend hadn't picked up on something that John just hadn't seen coming.

The slide may have been a gradual one, but once begun, it had been undeniable, it had been a bulldozer, and eventually, much as they had once embarrassed him, John had come to be thankful for the words "married to my work." It was lucky to have been given a heads up, to have a keystone to remind him that if he wanted to continue in this life that felt so much like a resurrection, then this (whatever _this_ was) was something he'd better discourage before it went too far, much safer locked away and forgotten (_my work, _his inner voice recited, _I consider myself married-to-my-work_). And as they had grown closer and John had watched Sherlock uncertainly learn to return his friendship, his devotion, he had always been able to remind himself that despite the incremental growth he was witnessing, this other thing he seemed to want was simply a step too far, and no good could come of it.

So that was what John had done then, locked it away where he couldn't even see it growing, and Sherlock, for his part, never said anything about it at all. And then came Moriarty and the roof of St. Bart's, and John had been left alone again, snapped back and reeling like a broken elastic band. Then there was Mary and the slow dawn of a winter morning, breaking through the frost, blood rushing back with the sensation of pins and needles. And then, impossibly, Sherlock had climbed his way back from the dead, turning John's world upside down as he'd never hesitated to do before, and John, overwhelmed with his good fortune, had kept on loving the both of them, loved each as he always had: Mary with slow kisses and breakfast in bed and gossip about their colleagues at the hospital, and Sherlock as an extension of his own body—John's fists Sherlock's shield and sword, his chest the home of everything Sherlock could not allow himself to feel, taking care of him and caring for him so that he could continue his work unburdened by anything that threatened to slow him down.

But then John had lost Mary (a slow loss, this time, a little more each day, different to the suddenness of a step off the edge, pinwheeling limbs, and blood splattered on the pavement) and he had begun to see the remainder of his life measured out before him in coffee spoons and evidence bags and late night dim sum, and he had known then, surely as he had ever known anything, that he simply wasn't going to love anyone else. With Sherlock in his life, John could see now, he would be fooling himself to even try. It was hardly a matter of resigning himself to celibacy—he'd still be free to go out and pull anyone he liked without any particular repercussions (or attempt to, at least)—but he could see quite clearly that his devotion to his friend precluded any kind of long-term, significant intimacy. The strange thing was that he was no longer exactly horrified by this fact. Whatever measure of intimacy there was to be had from Sherlock Holmes, that was what John Watson wanted, no matter what kind of sacrifice it might entail.

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and zipped the rolling suitcase up again with an angry jerk. For a moment, John debated helping him, but then Sherlock gave it a solid kick and it slid sideways across the cabin floor and John decided they'd both be happier if he stuck with his post as lookout.

John supposed it was a choice he had begun making long ago, maybe even when he had first raised steady hands to level his revolver for an impossible shot through two windows and the darkened street between them—an inevitable momentum that he might have been slow to pick up on, but the only choice he could have made, really. His devotion to Sherlock had grown to eclipse nearly everything else in his life in its importance, and regardless of what his heart might dare to want in his unguarded moments, that friendship would suffice, as it always had.

Though John certainly knew what he wanted (and what he was willing to accept instead), it had never been entirely clear what _Sherlock_ expected from him, what his perception of their relationship was and how it might have changed. Was Sherlock just going to keep taking everything John gave him (and John gave him _everything_) and then turn around to play tag with psychopaths and criminals whenever he fancied a thrill? Doubts like these had made John hold himself back for a while, after Sherlock had returned, on guard against what could happen if he were foolish enough to give Sherlock his full trust again, to believe he felt things like John did, like normal people did.

But recently, there had been signs of that ice breaking, of Sherlock opening himself up, letting down his own guard. Now, Sherlock seemed to be able to admit that he needed John (and not in the selfish way a child needed his security blanket or a favourite toy) and when he did, it was shyly, reluctantly, with gritted teeth betraying that he wished he could have lied but had no choice but to admit it. And of course Sherlock would still lapse into prolonged funks and ignore John for days—that wasn't likely to change anytime soon—but John wasn't too thick to notice the first thing Sherlock's eyes sought when he snapped out of it. After a recent case, Sherlock had even told John that he couldn't have done it without him—not in so many words, of course, but that's what John had taken away from a downcast glare, an upturned collar, and a muttered, "I would have found that significantly more difficult alone."

And that was exactly what was giving him so much trouble. Ice, John could manage. Cold was what kept him firmly on one side of the line, no matter how precariously he might teeter. But this was what was so difficult, the version of Sherlock who—despite his aloof posturing—clearly seemed to need John, depend on him, who said his name like it was a password or a prayer, who settled his feverish head into John's lap and begged him not to go away. What was John supposed to do about that?

A sharp hiss of breath shook John out of his thoughts, and he saw Sherlock's eyes flashing with glee as he lifted a small translucent pill bottle out of the bottom of a canvas backpack, holding it aloft with triumphant aplomb. He held it up to the light and studied it for a second, and the late afternoon rays of sun glinted off the sides of the canister until he covered it with his pale white hand to twist off the childproof lid with a smooth, decisive snap. Sherlock wet one finger with his tongue, dipped it inside the rim, and before John had time to react, raised it to plush lips and sucked off the layer of powder with an audible pop.

John gaped. A dull cloud passed over Sherlock's face, rearranging his features into a grimace. "Hmm," he said.

That was not a sound John liked. "Sherlock," he said evenly, fighting down the wave of fear rising in his gut. "What are you doing?"

Sherlock ran his tongue over his lower lip, tasting, confirming, frowning. "I may have…" His voice trailed off, and the doctor in John was ready to pounce, hold Sherlock down and check his vitals, his temperature, force his fingers down his throat and empty his stomach of its contents because he recognized that particular tone.

"What, you may have _made a mistake?!_" John demanded. "Christ, Sherlock, if you can't—"

"John," said Sherlock calmly, the voice of a man who knows he has seconds to brace himself for impact. "We have to reconsider. We can take this with us for testing, and we can try to come back here later." He pocketed the vial (and John noticed at least a dozen identical cousins gleaming in the bottom of the backpack) and took a deep breath. "But we can't be caught here; we need to get above deck, get fresh air. Now."

Sherlock snapped the pack shut and returned it to its place beside the bed. He stared blankly down at the items scattered on the floor, clutter they couldn't leave without arousing suspicion.

John stepped forward and grabbed the rolling suitcase, pulling it upright and unzipping it from top to bottom. He gave it a shove and it fell back, its contents skittering chaotically across the wooden floor.

He saw Sherlock looking at him with approval. "Turbulence," he said with a shrug.

Sherlock sighed resignedly. "Turbulence is only for—"

No, that was quite enough of that. "Come on, you idiot!" John snapped, reaching out and grabbing his hand.

John wasn't sure exactly what Sherlock had taken, but he had some idea of its effects, and he didn't fancy trying to manoeuvre him up the three flights of stairs to the deck once he was incapacitated. They'd have to move fast, beat the clock.

But as he flung open the door to the stairwell and they began to climb, he could see that Sherlock already looked unsteady. There was something of a stunned baby deer in his eyes and his walk, and he was slowing down, tugging John backward. How could the drug be working so fast? Especially in such a small amount! And how could Sherlock have been stupid enough to take it?

They reached the first landing and Sherlock gasped, coming to a halt, going over all shocked and awestruck as if he had opened his eyes to see the face of God floating above him. "The sunscreen," he breathed. "Of course! It's absorbed topically! It's so obvious—that's why all the tourists—"

John leapt forward to clasp his hand over Sherlock's mouth, raising the other to his lips in a _shh_ gesture. Sherlock's words died in his throat and the silence confirmed what John thought he had heard: the sound of a door opening above them, two sets of footsteps, men's voices: one British, one with a heavy French accent.

Sherlock's eyes went wide and he nodded frantically behind John's hand. His pupils were dark and round, eclipsing the silver rings of his corneas, and his muscles seemed to be quivering. He was leaning against the railing for support, John saw, but then with a violent jerk, his knees threatened to buckle so John removed his hand from Sherlock's mouth to hook an arm around his waist, pinning him back against the wall.

He might be able to get Sherlock back down the stairs, but it would be slow going and quite risky, especially if the boat started rocking again. And even if he managed, they'd never get far enough ahead; the stairwell would deposit them directly across from the cabin they'd just broken into, and even if their suspects didn't recognise Sherlock on sight, they'd surely be familiar enough with the effects of their drug to pick up on what was going on. John racked his brain, ears trained on the voices approaching from above.

He leaned into Sherlock, who was beginning to slump a little in his grasp, and whispered, "What do we do?" Sherlock licked his lips, eyes darting, and let out a high, braying giggle. John stifled a curse and clapped his hand back over Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's breath was hot against his palm. John squeezed his eyes tight and listened closely, praying that the men realised this was still a public place, that they wouldn't say anything not meant to be overheard, anything that might give them cause for concern about potential eavesdroppers.

Their voices were low, obscured by their echoing footsteps, until they came to an abrupt halt on the landing above John and Sherlock. It sounded like one man was repeating the other's words back to him, but then there came a few interminable seconds of blistering silence, and—

"THAT'S NOT GOOD ENOUGH!" roared the Frenchman, and John's heart skipped a beat, maybe even two. His pulse hammered in his ears, muffling most of the Brit's desperate explanation as he backtracked and wheedled and pleaded. This was not good.

Sherlock squirmed in John's grip, and his head lolled forward against John's shoulder, skin warm, curls soft. "John," he whispered, and his respiration was elevated, his breath humid against John's neck.

"Shh," John pleaded in his softest voice. He ran his hand across the plane of Sherlock's lower back, pulling him closer. "Sherlock, be quiet."

Sherlock giggled again, thin and reedy but blessedly, beautifully quiet. He raised a finger to his lips and smiled conspiratorially.

"Yes," whispered John. "For me, okay?" Sherlock nodded and let his forehead drop forward to rest against John's collarbone. It seemed ridiculous that Sherlock could be so affected so quickly, but if the drug was meant to be mixed into a cream and applied topically, then the powder must have been its concentrated form. Sherlock had probably only meant to taste it for confirmation, the great idiot, and ended up with a much stronger dose than he'd intended. But was John supposed to be happy with that? With Sherlock's history, he shouldn't have touched it at all, shouldn't have gotten anywhere near—

"I'll talk to him," said the British man, reassuring his partner through the obvious onset of panic. "He'll listen, I know he will, and we can work something out, I promise."

There was silence for a moment and then a sharp "Good," and John heard them begin to walk again.

Sherlock nuzzled into John's neck, worrying at the sensitive skin with his nose like a goddamn kitten, and John shook him gently, trying to jolt him back into reality, get him to stand on his own legs, but Sherlock just sagged contentedly in his arms, and then, just like that, John knew how he was going to get them out of this.

It was a terrible idea, to be sure, and his conscious had strenuous objections given the state Sherlock was in, but they couldn't move to get away any more than they could afford to stand there dumbly, looking like they had heard everything. Morally, it may have been dicey to use a friend like this, but it wasn't as if they'd never resorted to this tactic before (and recently, John thought, it was unbelievable how often they seemed to be finding themselves in this kind of situation). He could apologise to Sherlock later—for now, he had to take this chance to protect him.

He jerked Sherlock's clinging form upright, cushioning his head with one hand, and propped him firmly against the wall. Sherlock grinned at him madly, drunkenly, and in the absurdity of the moment, John felt his mouth stretch in an answering smile. What a well-matched pair of madmen they were.

John leaned forward, letting their foreheads touch (so much easier when Sherlock was slouched down to his height), noses bumping. He paused for a breath, to steel himself for what he was about to do, but then Sherlock abruptly turned his chin upward, bringing their lips together, and John inhaled sharply with shock. But this was Sherlock Holmes—it should be no surprise that he could predict John's every move, even under the influence of whatever drug he'd thought himself invincible enough to take.

If John registered a brief taste of something bitter, the thought quickly dissipated because Sherlock's lips were still as soft and warm as ever (and God, he shouldn't have a basis of comparison; he was a terrible, terrible man) but there was _something_ different, and he couldn't quite pin down what it was. He shifted slightly, adjusting the angle of his neck and Sherlock moved against him, tilting his head to invite John closer, and that was it: Sherlock was kissing him back. Clumsily, drunkenly, with a shy sort of hesitation, almost as if he didn't believe John wasn't going to evaporate and leave him to tumble to the floor—but however cautious and tentative it might be, Sherlock was kissing him back.

And John was going to hell, of course. That was all there was to it; that was just where you ended up if you took advantage of a friend like this, even with the rationale of protecting him. But being kissed back, having Sherlock reciprocate—even under such absurd and false circumstances—gave him a taste of what it could be like if the receptacle into which he poured all his energies and affection was willing to be anything more than just a receptacle, and it was enough to make his heart ache. He cursed himself. Just when they were coming to trust each other again, working their way back to how things had been, John had to go and complicate things—he couldn't leave well enough alone, could he?

Despite the sense of impending danger and the chorus of _not good not good_ threatening to overwhelm rational thought, John began to feel a wave of... giddiness, almost. It was bizarre, he thought (indulging a whim and nibbling at Sherlock's lower lip, eliciting a pleased sigh), how he could go so quickly from fear to contentment, let himself be so overcome when he knew very well the danger they might be in.

Sherlock threw his head back and gasped in a lungful of air—he seemed to be having trouble catching his breath, but hey, he was smiling. His face was high-resolution, somehow rendered in greater detail than everything else, while the edges of John's vision was starting to go a bit fuzzy, a bit sparkly... or was that it? Could John be picking up a contact high from the traces left on Sherlock's lips, on his mouth? John had to struggle not to laugh. This idea may have been even worse than he thought. Now they both had their judgment compromised (thought some might have argued that neither one of them had been possessed of particularly good impulse control in the first place), and if John wanted to get them out of here in one piece, he had quite a performance to put on.

Footsteps were drawing steadily closer in the narrow stairwell, and Sherlock, cheeks flushed pink, was still panting to get his breath back. John ought to give him some air. His vision was coming over all electric and staticky and he wanted to rub at his eyes, but there was no time, he could hear the men coming closer, and he and Sherlock needed to look like they couldn't have heard anything, and so he swallowed down his hesitation and pressed his mouth softly to Sherlock's collarbone, lips forming a gentle ring. It was chaste, almost, his lips barely parted, but he heard a sharp intake of breath (felt it, even, in his hair) and unbidden, a hot flush came over him, rushing up his spine to his neck and his scalp. He worked his way upwards, brushing a line of barely-kisses up the white curve of Sherlock's neck as their suspects approached from above and Sherlock moved, sighing, against him, hand slipping up John's side, across his shoulders.

Sherlock's joints seemed a little loose, his balance a little wobbly and John shifted his weight to work his leg in between Sherlock's thighs, daring him to send them toppling now. The footsteps on the stairs just behind them were slowing, and in some part of John's brain there was a car alarm or a siren or some kind of shrill buzzer trying to warn him of danger, but he was reasonably sure that the reason his heart was pounding was the salt of Sherlock's skin under his tongue, the way his eyes drifted blissfully closed as John kissed just below the line of his jaw, how John's teeth scraping below his ear made his head loll to the side. John ran a hand up Sherlock's side, feeling (he was sure) each rib through the skin, each muscle with the names that he'd learned in uni, all alive and warm beneath his hand, all conspiring somehow to submit to his affection, and there was something he was supposed to remember—something other than the heat of Sherlock's pectoral muscles beneath his palm—but his hand pinned Sherlock's shoulder back and John had to try not to bite his neck, fancying he could have tasted Sherlock's pulse through his skin.

There was giggling behind them, and then shushing and John frowned because he was certain, wasn't he, that he and Sherlock were the only two people in this universe that they were remaking against this cold, hard wall, and as they hadn't bothered to make anyone else, who could be there to laugh at them? It didn't make any sense, so he decided to ignore it, focusing instead on the shell of Sherlock's ear, the way Sherlock's curls were reaching to tickle his nose, and how Sherlock's fingers were climbing his spine from the base, cataloguing each vertebra in a way that should have tickled but didn't because John wouldn't have objected even if Sherlock tried to crawl inside his bones, and Sherlock's hands tugged insistently, pulling him closer.

And then there was a voice, some muddled words John couldn't make out, and John was frowning again because Sherlock had jerked upward, pulling back, but he was still smiling so it wasn't John's fault, John hadn't done anything wrong. But Sherlock's mouth was moving, his eyes fixed on something over John's shoulder and his eyes were sparkling like a joke but his words came out all funny in that same way, liquid and liaisoned and sliding together, and John thinks _French?_ and wasn't there someone who was supposed to be French? Sherlock's words elicited two sets of jovial laughter from behind John, and John realised that it must have been Mummy Holmes that he was thinking of. She had been French, hadn't she?

But he couldn't waste his time on thoughts like those, not when Sherlock's mouth was so open and so pink. John dipped his head to lick across Sherlock's bottom lip, to see if French tasted any different, and then there was more laughter behind them but Sherlock was trying to stifle a groan, and his right hand came up to the back of John's head, fingers kneading on either side of his spine, pulling him down for more and—_oh_—closer.

Behind them, John could hear footsteps again, but these ones were growing further away, softer, which he thought must be good. It wasn't entirely clear what was so good about it because the footsteps had been nice enough, whoever they had been, and they had made Sherlock speak French, which tasted _fantastic_, but maybe it was because now it was just him and Sherlock alone in the universe again, and that was something John liked, too. Maybe that was what he had wanted all along—maybe that was what all the fuss and panic had been about. He licked a line across Sherlock's teeth and focused on how Sherlock's hands felt under his jacket, holding his ribs in place.

Their noses bumped, breaking the kiss for a second and John hung there, millimetres from Sherlock's face, breathing against his lips, dizzy from the weight of Sherlock's eyes on his. Sherlock blinked at him and John just blinked back, mind simultaneously foggy and sparkly and blank, and then the corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up and his face broke and all at once, he was laughing hysterically, throwing his head back, clutching at John's shoulder like he was drowning in the hilarity. John opened his mouth to ask what could be so funny but found he was laughing too, eyes squeezed shut and head falling forward against Sherlock's chest.

The feeling of Sherlock's quaking body against his made everything even funnier somehow, and John tried to look up at him, tried to speak to communicate this fact and just couldn't get the words out. But Sherlock seemed to have understood him, read his mind maybe, because now he was absolutely howling and John's cheeks hurt with the joy of it.

Sherlock began to slide to the floor, clutching his knees toward his chest, and John decided to follow him because he certainly wasn't going to be able to stand up on his own. John slumped into Sherlock's side, chest heaving, as his arse hit the floor hard.

"We can't, we can't—it's," John gasped; he thought he might be crying. "...not even a crime scene." And Sherlock let out a great shrieking hiccough of a laugh, flailing his arms, gesturing frantically for John to stop. John's stomach was starting to hurt and tears were flowing down Sherlock's face, and John had forgotten how this felt, to surprise Sherlock, to make him laugh, really laugh, to give in and collapse, giggling, against his warm body. It felt _good_, it felt like the way things were supposed to be, and it made John wonder if maybe they weren't going to be all right after all.

NOTES:  
・I just love these idiots so fucking much. Ugh.

・I felt uncomfortable about having Sherlock use drugs and equivocated about it for a while. But I had wanted to write this scenario for a long time and so it won out and we'll just have to see what that means.

・Thanks for your patience with this chapter and also for all your feedback!


	5. Clean, Pretty, Romantic

**Twenty seven.  
Twenty eight. **

**Twenty nine. **

fuck, how could this be happening, how could he have failed to see it coming, how could he have let down his guard

**Thirty.**

but it had only been a few moments, hadn't it, so John's skin couldn't be this cold, it didn't make any sense, and the sand was warm beneath him, so why wasn't John?

**Tilt head back, lift chin, pinch nose.**

he could make it right, though—he was Sherlock Holmes and he was brilliant, the cleverest, and he was going to figure out how to do what needed to be done to fix this because it was entirely his fault

**One breath. Feel the chest rise.**

because there had been the powder and all he'd meant to do was check but John had been furious with him—_in their cramped cabin, had yelled, "I'm angry with you, Sherlock, so fucking angry with you," banging his palms on the little bolted-down desk_—and no, it really hadn't been good, and when Sherlock had started to understand what was happening, started to recognise the familiar silvery white lightness creeping around the edge of his psyche, he'd been so frightened because he couldn't _do _this again, he'd promised, and trying to stop always left everything so sharp and bleak and terrible

**Another breath: one second. Another rise. No response.**

but then John had been there and John had been able to lead Sherlock, think for him while his mind was gone all limp and useless, put his hands on him and hold him down so he couldn't go careening off the edge of the earth, and that had been good—what else could it be when it was John because John was so good?—and it had meant that Sherlock had got to be held by John, and got to kiss him again and taste him and learn the shape of him under his fingers, and that couldn't have been bad either because Sherlock wouldn't have traded it for anything

**Hands in the centre of the chest, form a V. Press down two inches and one, two, three...**

except he would, now, he'd take it all back from the beginning from the kiss to the drugs to even taking the case in the first place—he'd crush his mobile to dust so Dimmock's text never would have been opened—and his stomach was churning because he would trade that kiss, he'd trade a thousand more of them for never having had to put his lips to John's like this, so wet and slack and cold

**...eight, nine, ten, eleven...**

and his own face was wet, too, and salty, and some of it was from the water but he couldn't fool himself into thinking that that was all, not with a great big brain like his, because his chest was tight and heaving and hiding something sharp that was threatening to uncoil in the most spectacular way and leave him sprawled on the sand, and how was he meant to make John breathe again when his own lungs were vacuumed clean and flat, refusing to inflate no matter how many great burning gasps he gave, how could he, how could anyone...

**...sixteen, seventeen **(oh God please)**, eighteen, nineteen...**

still no sign of a response; John's face was just grey, some awful shade that wasn't quite mortuary but closer to that than to living, breathing creature, and John was supposed to be tan in his face and on his hands but not above the wrists because he had been a soldier and that was why he was too strong to go out like this, to be flipped unconscious over the railing by some man with a ridiculous little moustache and a club, too strong to drown right next to a dock because Sherlock couldn't get into the water quick enough because the crew had tried to hold him back, saying the ship was docking and it was dangerous, but John had been under the water and sinking, sinking

**...twenty five, twenty six, twenty seven...**

cracking under Sherlock's hands that mirrored the pain in his own chest, and one hundred pumps a minute—wasn't that so impossibly, cruelly slow?—andante when he should be calling John back with _Erlkönig_ or _Rite of Spring_ or the Tchaikovsky that he liked, _Symphony No. 4,_ any of those and not some nauseating mournful dirge that sounded like Sherlock wasn't doing everything he could, like he wouldn't pump his own arms off if he had to, or crack through John's ribs and squeeze the muscle of John's heart between his hands until it remembered how to beat again

**Tilt, lift, pinch. One breath...**

but John, at least, had been on guard, Browning in hand and back flush to his, and it had felt so much like the old days—John stepping instinctively between Sherlock and the perceived source of danger, and as they'd waited there, spine aligned against spine, Sherlock had felt it, somehow—something in the set of John's bones and the contentment in the way his broad shoulders and odontoid process rested against Sherlock's scapula, he didn't know what but he'd felt John trusting him again, felt the wave of easy affection, and Sherlock had been overwhelmed with something like gratitude—and a bit lost, maybe, because this wasn't his area, never had been, but there was something warm inside him creeping outward like a sunburst and so he had reached back and rested a hand on John's hip, felt bone and muscle beneath his palm, and squeezed

**...and two. And hands, one, two, three, four...**

and John had turned toward him, face screwed up in puzzlement, but then whatever he had seen in Sherlock's eyes had made his features go soft for a moment, made his mouth twist in a wicked smile, and he had leant in close to Sherlock and moved his lips and said, _"Now people are definitely going to—"_ and then there had come the man with his club and John hadn't seen him and the railing simply hadn't been high enough because John had gone toppling over it like a rag doll and Sherlock's world had spiralled down to one sharp, tight point of keening terror

**God, John is cold, John is never this cold.**

voices drawing closer, closing in—"Shouldn't somebody stop him?"—nasal and irate, and could that be Anderson? The Yard was supposed to be here, had been told to show up for the bust, but they couldn't have managed to be here when it counted, idiots, all of them, couldn't get here to stop this, and Sherlock heard Donovan starting to cry, soft and feminine, even though John _hated _Donovan, had never forgiven her because John had made it his mission to protect Sherlock, he'd said it, even, knuckles red from the cabin wall and matching his eyes, voice hoarse and breaking—_"All I want is to keep you safe,"_ and Sherlock's skin had itched but he'd fought the old habits, the urge to twitch, to scratch because he couldn't risk acknowledging what he might have done to himself, the road he was facing down, not while he could maybe still stop it from being real

**...thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen... **

but he'd take it back, all of it, he'd be good, he'd give it up—the drugs, the kisses, John's hands gentle on his face, he'd live with his brother and give up the cases and the stolen ashtray and he'd somehow step backwards until the soles of his feet hit the rooftop ledge, he'd forsake the work and let go of 221B and curries and tea and his blogger and all of it, he would if that meant that the only friend he'd ever had would stop lying there like a piece of driftwood on the sand

**...nineteen, twenty, twenty one...**

and sit up and smile with crinkling eyes and forget about Sherlock and find himself a lovely safe life with a kind woman, and children one day and a cosy house and maybe a bit of a psychosomatic limp when the weather was bad or the news too familiar, but two functioning lungs and that great heart and warm blood in his veins and nothing at all like this, he'd give anything if it would make John stop this, stop pretending and—

John's chest heaved violently under his hands and Sherlock started, overbalancing and falling sideways on the sand. Then John was half-curled on his side, vomiting up absurd quantities of seawater, and Sherlock rolled to his hands and knees, vision blurry and useless, trembling as he emptied his lungs in great, shaking gasps, carrying on even though John was now breathing for himself.

He could hear it now, too: John gasping in between bouts of retching and spitting, sucking air in desperately as if he could never get enough. And could it be healthy, he wondered (and his eyes were clear now and there were small wet depressions in the sand when he looked), could it hurt someone to take in so much oxygen at once after having been deprived for so long? His brain was failing him—he knew his chemistry and more than his fair share of basic medicine, but it all seemed to have shrunk down to _twenty-eight twenty-nine thirty_ and _tilt pinch breath breath_, but it certainly seemed to hurt from the strained, wheezing quality of John's breathing. And, oh, that was Sherlock's fault (all of this was Sherlock's fault) and so he crawled closer to John, cheeks wet and something inside his chest wobbling dangerously, and he put his hands gently on John's shoulders and tried to stop him moving.

"I've broken your ribs," he said, and he had never before heard his voice sound like that. "Three, at least. I can't be sure." A crowd was starting to form around them, Sherlock could hear them, but he ignored it because none of them mattered; there was only one person who mattered, especially now.

John's face was contorted and ghostly white with pain, but more important than anything, it was not that slack, close-eyed stare, not that horrible grey colour, and he managed to nod his head a little. "Means you did it right," he choked out, grimacing. "Good on you."

There were people swarming around them, then, trying to get John onto a stretcher because somebody must have called an ambulance (but where had it been before, where had it been when John was sprawled out dead or dying and Sherlock poised to follow if that was what it took to drag him back?), and there were people leading Sherlock away by the hand and that was fine because John was alive and John needed to forget him and Sherlock didn't have the energy left to fight anyway. Somebody wrapped a blanket around him, a ridiculous orange blanket which was entirely inappropriate considering he was not in shock, but there had once been another time with another ambulance and a different body on the ground but this same hideous blanket around his shoulders, and then Sherlock was crying into his knees because he had lost all of that, he had promised and he was going to give up John, cut him loose again to keep him safe, and someone's hands were rubbing his back

_(grandmotherly, arthritic, younger years working as a typist or secretary) _

but he couldn't be bothered to look up and see who because it couldn't be the one person who mattered and so he gave in and folded in on himself and let everything go dark for a while.

xxx xxx xxx xxx

When the sounds began to trickle back in once more, he could hear John's voice arguing as they worked to load him into the ambulance.

"I'm a good swimmer," he was protesting, voice still hoarse and strained but closer to normal than it had been. "I can do the butterfly."

And then Sherlock had needed to take in a deep breath and let it out slowly because he had saved John and it seemed that John was at least well enough to be talking absolute nonsense, apparently, so he'd soon be well enough to find that kind woman and the dog they would get and probably a flat above a bakery somewhere, to start.

They were about to close the ambulance doors, but John was still talking, and his voice was getting louder, more insistent. "Sherlock," he said. "Where is Sherlock?"

And so Sherlock stood, still somewhat unsteady on his feet, and he saw Donovan come running, looking for him because she was too stupid to know that if John was calling for him, Sherlock would come, had no choice but to come. He managed to avoid her as he crossed the short distance and without really thinking, he popped into the ambulance and knelt down beside his friend. The EMT began to close the doors behind him, and Sherlock wanted to call out to stop her because he didn't belong there, wasn't family, was well on his way to not being anything, but she didn't look at him and he couldn't seem to find his voice anyway, and so they clanged shut.

"Sherlock," said John, at once relieved and exasperated. The younger EMT was beside him, coiling up the tail of a nasal mask, packing it away with a flowmeter—Entonox, most likely, for the pain. "Sherlock, you were right there. Where did you go?"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, looking down into John's face, and John stared up at him. The ambulance began to move

"You saved my life," John told him, and his eyes were soft.

There had been times where Sherlock had, yes, but not today—that was so far from the truth that he felt sick inside. He shook his head and looked away.

John's hand was on his wrist, squeezing, and the EMT was bustling, fingers busy, talking in whispers with her colleague. Sherlock couldn't say anything; the words were all dried up and gone. John's hand squeezed again.

"Hey," John said softly, and Sherlock's eyes snapped back to his. But John didn't seem to have anything in particular to say, just his eyes grey and blinking, fingers a soft pressure on Sherlock's wrist, cold but thawing with the heat from Sherlock's skin.

All Sherlock could do was watch the rise and fall of his chest, shallow and constricted but steady and, miraculously, over and over and not two hollow movements induced by his own desperate exhalations.

"You did," John repeated, and Sherlock felt a strong urge to look away but couldn't tear his eyes away from the steel suddenly present in John's. But there wasn't anything he could say to that—he'd used up all his words already and besides, it would hardly do to spend his last moments with John arguing (though wouldn't it be so very like him?), and what purpose could it possibly serve when this was all his fault anyway? If Sherlock had stopped to think for a second, John might have walked off the boat with a smile and his ribs intact and no chance of brain damage from oxygen deprivation, might right now be walking straight into that happy and safe life he should have had from the beginning.

"_Hey_," John's voice was commanding this time, and something in his eyes showed that while maybe he couldn't see into Sherlock's head, he had enough of a window to know what was going on and see that it was not good.

"Don't go disappearing again," he said, sounding very much the soldier in spite of his obvious weakness. "I need you here."

Sherlock wanted to tell John that he didn't, he couldn't, that the last thing he needed right now was someone like him.

"Don't," John warned him again. "Sherlock, I'm not having it."

And then John was reaching up, and—but he was a doctor—didn't he know that he shouldn't be moving, let alone grabbing at Sherlock's collar and clutching and pulling him down and, _oh_—

Oh, but Sherlock needed this, chaste as it was, he needed these few brief seconds of John's lips against his, chapped but warm and responsive and real, John's breath on his chin, and deep lungfuls of the smell of him (and that of seawater too, but Sherlock must have reeked of salt and brine as well because he barely noticed it anymore), and Sherlock's hands fisted in his own lap, gripped at the fabric of his trousers, trying not to reach out for John because he was injured and needed to rest, and—

"Sir?" came an authoritative voice, a woman's. The EMT was standing behind Sherlock, looking down at him self-assuredly. "You're going to have to give him some space."

Sherlock wanted to argue, wanted to tell her, "It's him kissing me," and that besides, he'd be gone soon enough, but she didn't seem disposed to listen, particularly not with all the stress her mother's health issues (_no, could also be the father's, could also be the drink_) were causing at home. Instead, he rocked back on his heels and watched John, who was still holding his hand, whose eyes were drifting closed.

"Don't," John reminded him in a low whisper. The ambulance rolled through the streets of London and Sherlock ran his thumb over the back of John's hand, studying the topography of his knuckles until his eyes stung. He could have tracked their progress through each road, mapped it out in his mind, but it was so much more pertinent, so immediate and worthwhile to watch his fingers trace lines over John's skin.

Moments passed in silence before John stirred, leg twitching, head tilting to the side. "Sherlock," he breathed, and his eyes fluttered. "Sherlock?" His voice was soft and untethered, so far away and hopeful.

Sherlock felt himself nodding even before his voice cooperated. "John?" John's fingers wiggled, clutching, and he gave a sigh (and God, Sherlock would never get tired of that, the sound of John breathing), lips parting, and he regarded Sherlock through half-lidded eyes and smiled.

"I can do the butterfly," he said.

Sherlock's head dropped limply forward and he heard himself make a hysterical noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Then he felt a hand on his, and he opened his eyes again to see John staring up at him, indignant and puzzled and somewhat hazy.

"I'm a very good swimmer," John insisted, sounding exasperated, as if it was a basic fact that Sherlock kept on forgetting.

Sherlock swallowed and did his best to plaster a smile on. "You are," he reassured John, and his voice was hoarse and low. John's pale face broke into a smile—he had won the argument, apparently—and satisfied, he closed his eyes again. Sherlock leaned down to rest his forehead against John's shoulder, breathing in his smell and his warmth, and letting his eyes drift closed, too.

NOTES:  
・Title ganked from my favorite timeswamp, TV Tropes. Also, CRP is not romantic, which is why there's an actual kiss at the end. But I think I know how to do it now, which is fantastic.

・Did you know you're supposed to keep rhythm by singing "Staying Alive" to yourself? I picture one of these two doing that to the other whenever I want to feel like I've been kicked in the heart.

・Thousands of thanks to (alphabetical order) to Morgana le Fai and ohtigermytiger for their invaluable insight and feedback. Any mistakes that remain are my own.

・Like many of you, I've signed up for the AO3 Fundraising Auction. You can find more information on it here. If you'd like to bid on me, I'd be very surprised you can click here, and since it's for a great cause, I'd encourage you to check out the author list and bid on someone amazing because this is fandom is filled with incredibly talented people and I don't know what I'd do without AO3. And I even re-learned how to do html links for this so you know it's important. The end.


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